


Roses of Picardy

by splix



Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Romance, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 76,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.</p><p>I've been lucky enough to receive four beautiful pieces of art for this story: </p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/455001">My Dearest Jamie</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/493108">These Days of Dust</a> by Sithdragn,</p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/495031">Roses of Picardy</a> by Hechicera, and</p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/790683">Roses of Picardy</a> by Leyla Lovely.</p><p>Please have a look and feed back the artists. Many thanks.</p><p>The story is now also available as a podfic, recorded by Laura McEwan! Find it <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/994092">here.</a></p><p>Hippediva has written a beautiful poem to complement the fic. Read it <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2046267">here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue:  Long-famous glories, immemorial shames

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Roses of Picardy(Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/837261) by [kiii17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiii17/pseuds/kiii17)



_So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together  
Over an open stretch of herb and heather  
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned  
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups  
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes  
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space._

 

\---Wilfred Owen, _Spring Offensive_

 

*

 

Death.

Only hours before the field had been golden-green, brimming with tranquil beauty, glowing sweet and pure beneath the August sunshine. Now it was a wasteland, an abattoir, littered with the dead and the dying, echoing with the screams of men and horses, reeking with the ripe, hot stench of blood and entrails, gunpowder and smoke and the recently churned raw earth.

Through this nightmare Jamie walked quietly, straight-backed, his nose tilted at an arrogant angle so that his captors would not detect the violent cacophony of rage and guilt and horror that lay behind the calm façade. His hands, hot in their tight leather gloves, clenched helplessly as the infantryman behind him gave him a vicious shove, but he scorned to even glare at the man, instead moving at quick-march. He understood enough German to realise that they were taunting him, insulting his parentage, his intelligence, his battle prowess, but he gave no sign of recognition. His gaze never rested; he scanned the field ceaselessly, searching for a familiar figure, a familiar head of bright hair, hoping against hope that he might see a reason for rejoicing amidst the carnage.

Something struck his boot, and he halted in his tracks. A young subaltern sprawled on the ground raised a hand in desperation. “Major…please….”

Jamie knelt beside the young man and took his hand, wishing he could remember his name. The boy wasn’t a day over eighteen, his cheeks still rounded with youth. Red stained his blond hair; Jamie looked at the boy’s legs, torn off below the knee, and quickly looked away again. “Courage, lad,” he said softly.

“It hurts – oh, God –“

The barrel of a weapon prodded roughly between Jamie’s shoulder blades. “Up, Tommy,” the German soldier behind him growled. “Up.”

Jamie rounded on him. “Give me a moment, for Christ’s sake,” he snarled, and turned back to the boy. “The ambulances should be along in short order, lad. Don’t lose heart.”

The boy, who was almost certainly dying, nodded tremulously. “Rotten luck, sir.”

“The worst,” Jamie agreed, and touched the boy’s cheek. 

“Can you get a message to my mother and dad, sir?”

“I shall try. What is it?”

The young man’s hand scrabbled at his chest pocket. “Tell them I –“ He coughed weakly, and a reddish froth appeared at the corner of his mouth. He gave a gurgling moan, still clutching at his chest.

“Hang on, lad. Hang on.” Jamie reached into the young man’s breast pocket and withdrew a pay book, crisp and new-looking. “Is this what you wanted me to give them?”

Tears clouded the young man’s eyes. He moaned again.

Jamie clasped the book in his free hand. “Lad, listen –“ He grunted in surprise as two sets of hands grasped his arms and hauled him backward. He struggled briefly, but froze as he saw a young German officer approach the dying subaltern, pistol cocked. “No. No!” He fought to free himself from the grip of his captors, but their combined grip was steel, and his body, mind, and soul were exhausted. Nevertheless, he strained against them, trembling and enraged, writhing at the humiliation of his own impotence and knowing full well what was about to happen. “For God’s sake, no –“

The officer took aim and fired. The echoing crack of the pistol reverberated in Jamie’s ears, unnaturally loud in a sudden pocket of silence, as if the field of dying men and the ghosts of the dead had all paused for a moment to note the passing, the squandering of another young life.

Tears burned in Jamie’s eyes and throat, but he would not let them fall. He shook himself free of the soldiers’ grasp – or they simply let him go – and he glared at the young German officer, longing to wrap his hands round the man’s throat and squeeze the life from him, but he knew even the attempt would avail him nothing. Shame at his own cowardice choked him; he clenched his teeth and held the boy’s pay book in his hands.

The young officer took his cap off, revealing blond, curling hair. He met Jamie’s gaze evenly; his eyes held no malice or glee, only fatigue and sorrow. They were blue, those eyes, and superficially, he looked a bit –

_Stop,_ Jamie commanded himself. 

“ _Er starb als held_ ,” the young officer said. _He died a hero._

Jamie was in no mood for camaraderie, for fence-mending, for solemn tributes. “I shall be certain,” he replied icily, “to inform his parents of such.” He slipped the pay book into his pocket and knelt again, heedless of the red pool spreading in the dirt, to close the young man’s eyes. He wanted to say a brief prayer, but no words came to mind. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked on.

 

*

 

They reached the garrison town by nightfall, a woefully small group of prisoners guarded by German soldiers many times their number. Jamie moved toward the men herding what remained of his battalion toward a long brick building, but a soldier caught his arm and gestured toward another building in what looked to be the town’s public square. Angrily, Jamie shook the man’s hand off. “If my men are to be imprisoned, I wish to share their accommodations.”

“ _Nein_ ,” the soldier replied, and drew his pistol. Several other men surrounded them, and one pushed Jamie in the chest. Enraged, Jamie pushed back, shoving as hard as he could and knocking the man to the ground. It was a tactical error; the brief scuffle gave the German soldiers a good reason to begin abusing him. Fists battered at his body, and he kicked out to defend himself. Someone took his cap and stepped on it. That contemptuous gesture, small as it was, undid him. He let out a howl of fury and swung in any and every direction, biting and kicking and punching with abandon. There were six or seven Germans, though, and in no time they converged upon him with fists and feet and the butts of rifles, driving him to his knees, sending his breath gusting out in huge, agonised gasps. _Good. Good. Have at it, damn you._

“ _Hör auf damit!_ ”

The hands holding Jamie let go, and he slumped to the ground. Through ringing ears he heard a German voice raised in anger.

“You God-damned fools! Who gave you permission to assault an officer? Get him up. Get him up!”

Jamie offered no resistance as the soldiers dragged him to his feet. Blearily, he attempted to regard the shouting officer with contempt, but it seemed too much effort. His ribs ached, a back tooth was bleeding, possibly broken, and one eye was beginning to swell shut with astonishing rapidity.

“Get him to the courthouse. Now, you fucking dogs, or I’ll have you whipped from head to toe.”

With an alacrity that would have been amusing if Jamie had had the presence of mind to register it, the soldiers quickly frog-marched him to a building of white stone and forced him into a tiny windowless room, scarcely more than a closet. They flung him toward the wall, snorting with laughter when he crashed into it and landed in a graceless heap, and closed the door, enclosing him in darkness. Jamie heard the scrape of a key in a lock, then more muttered laughter and the retreating scrape and thud of booted feet.

Jamie flung himself at the door, hammering on it with all his strength, hurling curses at his captors. He felt for the knob; there was none on this side of the door, only a smooth metal plate. Seething, he pounded at the unyielding door and roared until his fists ached and his voice was raw and cracked, and there was no reply to his banging and shouting. They’d abandoned him, at least temporarily.

Disoriented, the last of his resources exhausted, Jamie slid to his knees, his forehead resting against the heavy wood. Heavy silence filled the little windowless cell, forcing him to confront truths that the frenzy of the day’s battle had heretofore concealed. He felt his helplessness keenly, his youth, the shocking ingenuousness of the strategy he had only this very morning thought so clever, the loss of so many of his comrades.

Bitter tears at last trickled down his cheeks.

_Jim. Oh, God, Jim._

 

*


	2. Chill with a hopeless rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief attempted sexual assault in this chapter.

*

Chapter 2

_Do you remember that hour of din before the attack–  
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then  
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?  
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back  
With dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-grey  
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?_

Siegfried Sassoon, _Aftermath_

One of the soldiers who’d captured him had taken his watch (a gift from his grandfather; he’d treasured it and no heartfelt entreaty could induce the wretch to return it to him) and hovering between uneasy consciousness and fitful sleep, Jamie had no idea how much time had passed in the windowless and increasingly airless room until the door opened, revealing a bright wash of sunlight. He held his arm up, wincing against the sudden brilliance, and before he had a moment to orient himself, two uniformed figures blocked the light, shouldering their way through the door, grasping him by the arms, and hauling him to his feet. 

_Here it comes, then – the end. Chin up, you fool. Face it bravely._ He’d not suffered a scratch in the melee, and he counted the beating he’d received in the square as nothing at all. There was no excuse to stumble along like an invalid. The effort that it took to stand straight and tall, to get his feet moving without dragging, shocked him, but he managed – just. There was, he supposed, still a part of him that clung fiercely to life, even as its end loomed terrifyingly near. It would be a firing squad, most likely, in the square to deter insurrectionists. They would parade him out, bind him to a post, blindfold him, pin a square of cloth over his heart, and then –

He must have made some small noise of distress, for the two soldiers pulling him along gave him a curious look. Mortified, Jamie clenched his teeth and walked on, planting his feet firmly enough to make his steps ring out in the stone hallway. _Your dignity’s all you’ve got now. Hang on to it, for Christ’s sweet sake._

They stopped before a featureless wooden door, and one soldier turned the knob and pushed Jamie over the threshold. He glanced round, puzzled, at the little washroom and enclosed water closet.

“Go on,” the soldier said in German. “Hurry up, though.” Jamie hesitated, and the soldier gave him a shove. “Well, go on! I haven’t got all day.”

Jamie closed the door behind him and slipped into the water closet. It was an unexpected kindness, allowing him some rudimentary hygiene before being shot; it would prevent further humiliation after his death. Not that he would care much, but still, it was more than he’d expected. He finished and washed his hands and face at the little pedestal sink, illuminated by a pretty fluted gaslight, and stared at himself in the mirror. He was unshaven, his hair was awry, the blow to his face had caused a black eye, and his mouth was swollen, but otherwise he looked perfectly well, whole and hearty. He wetted his hair, damping down the worst of the cowlicks, and thought of Jim, who’d complained about the troublesome nature of curly hair.

_\---Damned silly nuisance. I can never get it to lie one way or the other._

_\---Like as not that’s because you’ve got any number of girls queuing up to rumple it._

_\---True, true. I’m a six-foot, two-inch Little Lord Fauntleroy, Jamie. God help me._

_\---Doubt that’s how they see you, old man._

_\---You don’t believe me?_

_\---Not a jot’s worth. Come off it, you know you’re a handsome devil._

_\---Flattery, my dear chap, will get you everywhere._

Jamie pressed his hands to his face, ignoring the pain of his bruises. He’d never given much thought to an afterlife, he’d had no use for the notion, but now – he hoped Jim was in Heaven, and if there was any justice, he might see him once more. There wasn’t much to keep either of them out. Jamie had had longings, to be sure, but when it came right down to brass tacks, he’d been chaste. And Jim had been as good and sweet, as deeply conscientious, as it was possible for any man to be. It wasn’t fair, God damn it all, it wasn’t fair –

“Hey! Get your arse out here, Tommy!”

Jamie straightened his tunic, then opened the door and stepped out, coldly meeting the gazes of the two soldiers. They were boys, neither of them any older than the subaltern who’d been shot yesterday.

“Better,” one said to the other.

“I think he can walk on his own.” The second soldier stepped back respectfully and swept a hand out, indicating that Jamie should precede them. Jamie gave no indication that he understood what they were saying, and moved forward with a disdainful glare for both of them. _Boys,_ he thought despondently, _doing a man’s job. God help them all._

Jamie paused at the double doors leading outside, but the soldiers shook their heads and pointed further down the corridor. His heart sank. _Not a simple death, then._ He feared torture – not only because of the likelihood of agony, but because as an officer, he was privy to sensitive information, and he had heard from his father, who had fought in the Boer War, that eventually, everyone talked. Courage counted for nothing when the soles of one’s feet were slowly roasting thanks to a white-hot iron poker. 

He was surprised, then, to be escorted to a small but handsomely appointed room, where a table had been set for breakfast. The first young soldier pointed to the food. “Eat,” he said, “but if you get sick, you’ll clean it up.” When Jamie didn’t move, the boy rolled his eyes and made gestures of scooping food into his mouth. “Eat!”

“Or don’t,” the other boy said. “I don’t give a damn. Come on, Eber.” He pushed Jamie toward the table and left the room with the first soldier, closing the door firmly.

Jamie stared at the food, which looked utterly delectable and was emitting the most exquisite aromas. He hadn’t eaten for at least twenty-four hours, and his stomach was making plaintive noises. Perhaps it was poisoned, though.

_Does it matter, if I’m going to die? Might as well die on a full stomach._

He sat at the table and spread a fresh linen napkin on his lap. There was ham and boiled eggs and fresh bread with butter and jam, and a pot of coffee. He ate, tentatively at first, then with intense appetite. _The condemned man’s last meal_ , he thought with grim humor, but his gallows wit failed to stop him. Only when he was halfway through the excellent breakfast did it occur to him that perhaps his men were not faring so well. He set down his fork, laid the napkin on the table, and got to his feet, feeling ill.

The door opened, and a young man strode in, wearing the uniform of a German cavalry captain. “Major James Stewart?”

Jamie stood at parade rest and lifted his chin. “Yes.”

The captain took off his cap and gave a brief, courteous bow. “Good morning to you.” He spoke in excellent English. “I am Rittmeister Christian Maier, First Württemberg division.” He held out a gloved hand, which Jamie ignored. A faint blush spread over his already pink cheeks, and he shrugged. “Have you enjoyed your breakfast? The residents here have been most hospitable.”

“Not by choice, I’ll wager.”

Maier smiled. “Major Stewart, they are a sensible people and understand that they are as free as is possible at the moment. But I have interrupted your meal – please, sit down.”

“I shall stand if it’s all the same to you.”

“As you like. I, however, will sit.” The young captain strode to the table, took the seat opposite Jamie’s plate, and helped himself to a slice of bread. “Yesterday was a most devastating loss for you. Please believe my most heartfelt sentiments when I express my sorrow.”

“You weren’t there yourself,” Jamie said. The German battalions had been infantry only.

“No.” Maier buttered his bread and spread a spoonful of jam onto it. “No, Major Stewart. As you no doubt witnessed, there is a decided time and place for cavalry action, and it is no longer on an open field of battle. Your charge was undoubtedly brave, but foolish.” He took a bite of bread, chewed, and swallowed. “I have seen your horse. A magnificent animal. Some of the officers were looking upon him with a covetous eye.”

Jamie’s heart thumped dolefully for the loss of Topthorn. “Don’t mistreat him. He’s a splendid creature.”

“It is not for me to say, alas, but I will pass the word. Major, please – do sit down. You are giving me a twinge in my neck.”

Reluctantly, Jamie resumed his seat, perching stiff-backed on the edge of his chair.

“Finish your breakfast.”

“I want assurance that my men are receiving fair and decent treatment.”

“Naturally they are. You may speak to them later, if you wish.” That was a surprise. Jamie stared warily at Maier, who poured himself a cup of coffee and added cream. He sipped and closed his eyes as if in ecstasy. “God. After the horrors of field coffee, it is delightful to taste the real thing, is it not?” He smiled ingenuously at Jamie. “I am a great admirer of the English. I spent many summers in your Yorkshire Dales. A beautiful place. Most beautiful. And the Bilsdale hunt – perhaps the most exciting thing I have ever witnessed.”

Jamie had hunted in the Bilsdale twice. “Indeed?”

“Oh, yes. A triumph. I have devoured _Horse and Hound_ more intently than the Bible.” Maier spoke effusively about fox hunting for a few moments. “You have the look of a hunter to me, Major.”

“Yes.” Jamie felt himself unbending in the presence of this friendly young man. “Not much recently, but…in my youth.”

Maier leaned back and took a little box from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette and offered it to Jamie. “Please.” Jamie took the cigarette, and Maier stood and walked round the table with a lighter. He leaned close and cupped the flame with a hand, then straightened to light his own cigarette. “So great was my enthusiasm that my parents established a hunt in our town. It was most popular. I regret I have missed it this year.” He exhaled and sat again. “You cannot imagine the thrill of seeing such accomplished men and even women.” He talked for a while, volubly and knowledgeably, about hunting and other English sporting events. His admiration was both amusing and somewhat touching. “Are there many hunters among your cavalry?”

“I expect so. A few in my regiment at least. Or there were.” Jamie glanced down at the uneaten food and felt a mingled stab of sorrow and guilt.

“In every cavalry regiment, yes?”

“I suppose so.”

“You have more cavalry strung along West Flanders, I imagine.”

“They’ve been –“ Jamie bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and looked up at the young officer, who was staring at him intently from behind a cloud of smoke. “Ah. I see. Lulling me into complacency, is that the idea?” He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet, furious with himself. He _had_ been lulled, by Maier’s easy manner, by his conversation, by the luxurious breakfast. “To hell with you.”

Maier shook his head. “Major, please sit.”

Jamie stood at parade rest once more and kept his eyes fixed above Maier’s head. 

The young captain stood with a sigh and walked toward Jamie. He stopped at arm’s length and spoke softly. “Major, I tell you something in confidence, because I do admire you English, and all I told you was true. It is best that you speak to _me_. Some of the other men in the battalions here are not so sympathetic to you. They may not treat you as gently. Do you understand me?”

 _Go and rot_ , Jamie thought.

“And they may not treat your men as gently.”

“Leave them be. They –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut again. _They know nothing,_ he’d been about to say, implying that information was his alone. _Christ, how many more blunders will you make before all this is over? Keep your blasted mouth quiet._

Maier shook his head. “I understand your reluctance, Major Stewart, but I beg you to reconsider.”

Jamie stared straight ahead.

“Perhaps you need some time to think. I will grant you that, but mind you that time is passing rapidly. If you can help us, so much the better for you and your men.” Maier went to the door and opened it. “Come and collect him.” As the young soldiers re-entered the room and took him by the arms, the young captain shook his head. “I like you, Major. Perhaps in another life, we might have been friends, you and I.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Back to the cell.”

Jamie thought about demanding to see his men, but regretfully decided against it. His stubbornness would hardly inspire mercy or sympathy. He should have made the demand before listening to Maier’s endless nattering about hunting and cricket. _Christ, you’re a fool_ , he told himself. _You’re destroying everything you touch._ The excellent breakfast roiled unpleasantly in his stomach.

They heaved him into the little room and locked him within once more. Jamie stood in the center of the dark, stuffy little chamber for a moment without moving. At last, he removed his tunic and folded it neatly, then sank to the floor, his back straight against the plaster wall, and waited for whatever would come next. 

He had no other choice.

 

*

 

He waited for two days. The soldiers on guard duty occasionally let him out to use the toilet, and he marked the passage of time by the light or darkness in the corridor on those occasions. The guards brought him meals – not the relatively sumptuous viands that had been his breakfast, but plain bread and water, and once or twice a sausage or a piece of cheese. It was enough to keep body and soul together, and though he burned to know that his men were also receiving food and humane treatment, he kept silent, not speaking to his captors in English or German. He hoped that they would possibly grow careless and reveal some piece of information that might aid in his escape.

For he was determined to escape. He had no intention of compounding the gross strategic error he’d made by adding his own death and the deaths of his remaining men to the butcher’s bill. Something practicable had to come from all this. He knew that rescue was a forlorn hope, best not thought of, and even if he did escape there might be hell to pay at Whitehall for his stupidity, but he would take it as a richly deserved penance. Apart from his gaolers, though, no-one spoke to him, or came to interrogate him, and after two days he grew sorely puzzled and impatient. 

His attempts to break out of his room had been laughable at best. They’d taken every useful object from him – his spurs, his jack knife, even the scabbard to his sword. The only potentially dangerous article left on his person was a stock pin he’d worn on his tie in the shape of a riding crop, with a tiny fox’s head at its tip. He’d tried to work it into the space between the door jamb and the latch and had only succeeded in bending the dashed thing beyond use. Swearing vilely, he’d hurled it into a corner and delivered a vicious kick to the door, budging it not one whit but bruising his toe rather badly. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he sank to his knees and covered his face, and it was in that abject state that the soldiers found him.

“Praying, Tommy? Good idea.” One of the soldiers grasped his arm and tried to pull him up.

Heartily sick of being treated like a child or a piece of luggage sent to the wrong port, Jamie struck at the man’s hand and stood up, groaning involuntarily at the pain in his toe. “I can stand on my own, damn your eyes!” He snatched up his tunic and shrugged into it, buttoning it as the young men snapped their fingers at him to hurry. “Oh, go to hell. You’ve kept _me_ waiting long enough.”

They hustled him down the corridor and this time stopped at the set of double doors leading to the square. Flinging the doors open, they dragged him into the hot August sunshine and across the cobbles where a post had been erected and where a company of German soldiers and officers waited. His stomach roiled angrily, and fearing he would be sick and disgrace himself, he stood utterly still, planting his feet and bringing his jailers to an abrupt halt.

“Now he’s scared,” one of them said with evident satisfaction.

“Good.”

Jamie swallowed and forced his feet into motion. _Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen._ His heart trembled as they drew close to the assemblage, but he forced himself to stand straight and proud despite his fear and his unwashed, bedraggled state. He looked into the face of one of the officers, recognising the colonel who had harshly berated him at the battle’s conclusion. The man recognised him as well and gave him a cold smile. Jamie said nothing, though his whole soul cried out in protest. If this was his punishment for refusing to betray his comrades, then so be it.

“Get your frigging hands off me, God damn you!”

Jamie turned at the shout and saw three soldiers dragging a bound and blindfolded man in a British uniform toward the assembled group. They tied him to the post, deaf to his curses, and stepped away, clearing the square. Four Germans with rifles moved forward and readied their weapons.

Horror closed Jamie’s throat. He stared at the captive soldier, then at the German colonel. “What –“

“We requested information, Major Stewart,” the colonel replied. “You refused to comply. Witness now the result of your obstinacy.”

“Oh, God almighty,” Jamie whispered. “No.”

“Proceed,” the colonel said shortly.

“No!” Jamie threw himself at the man, but found himself caught and pinned in the blink of an eye. He thrashed violently, desperately, all to no avail. The soldiers holding him twisted his arms brutally up toward his shoulders, stilling his struggles and wrenching a cry of pain from his aching throat. 

“Ready!” someone called. The riflemen shouldered their weapons.

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

Acrid smoke drifted past his nostrils, and the noise of the shots resounded in his ears. His eyes blurring with furious tears, Jamie sagged in his captors’ grip and would have sunk to his knees had they not pulled him up to face the German colonel, who stood close to him, anger sparking in his eyes.

“There are still fifty living prisoners, Major. Tomorrow I shall execute two.” He surveyed Jamie closely. “Unless you wish to share your knowledge with me.”

Jamie glared at him with all the defiance he could muster, though he believed every word the man said. He refused to speak. To lose two more of his men – God, no. And the next day three, or four, and the next, and the next? But to speak might mean the death of hundreds more. Nothing had prepared him for this – the irascible or bluff instructors at Sandhurst had never told him that one day he might be personally accountable for the lives of his men. Battle was one thing; this was another entirely. Was his knowledge so valuable?

_God help me. I don’t know what to do._

They marched him away and threw him back into the cell. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms round them, and gave himself up to silent misery. He prayed in desperation, sending up an inarticulate petition: _Help me. Please help me._

There was no answer.

*

The next day, as promised, there was another gathering on the public square. This time the execution was witnessed by a group of villagers – women, mostly, and children and old men, a congregation of the powerless, too cowed and frightened to fight back. They watched in silence as the soldiers took aim and shot the prisoners one by one. Afterward, a small band of citizens was allowed to retrieve the bodies. They wheeled them away in an open cart, their bodies covered with rough linen sheets, stained red here and there where the fabric had settled.

The colonel lit a cigarette, given to him by the young cavalry captain, Maier. “Still stubborn, Major.”

Maier met Jamie’s gaze and shook his head, his eyes troubled.

“It has been quiet,” the colonel said. “Surely there must be another battalion approaching. Another band of mounted fools, do you suppose? Or something else?”

Jamie turned away so the colonel would not see how his chin trembled.

“Very well,” the colonel sighed. “Tomorrow, four.”

*

This time the rest of the prisoners were assembled on the square under heavy guard. Jamie scrutinised them surreptitiously; they looked battered and weary, but still fairly clear-eyed. They had been receiving adequate food, at least; none of them appeared to be fainting with hunger.

Jamie’s guards, accompanied by the colonel, forced him to walk to the company of prisoners. They had fettered his hands behind his back and bound his ankles with a set of old-fashioned, rusting chains that allowed him enough movement to walk in short, awkward strides. Hard fingers dug into his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in front of his men.

“I think,” the colonel said softly, “you should apologise to these men for putting them through such a terrifying ordeal.”

Jamie could scarcely lift his eyes to meet those of his men. He knew damned well that his captors were visiting deliberate humiliations upon him, but kneeling before them, restrained, taunted, powerless – the sensation cut deeper than he had thought possible.

“Jamie,” a soft voice said.

Shocked, Jamie looked up and saw Charlie Waverly, a clumsy bandage wrapped round his head, supported between two men. “Charlie – good God, we thought we’d lost you.”

“Almost did,” Charlie grinned. “I’m tougher than I look, Jamie.”

He looked dreadful, Jamie thought anxiously. “Have you lot been getting medical attention?”

“Some. There are some lads back in the prison – it’s a storehouse, Jamie – they can’t walk, and I keep asking for someone to get a dispatch to the Red Cross, but I’m ignored quite roundly.” Charlie shook his head. 

Jamie longed to stand. He looked up at the faces of his men, once so hopeful, bright and clear, and now drawn with fatigue and a fast-fading hope. “Gentlemen…there is no way I can possibly express my sorrow at this debacle.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You have all acted with the utmost bravery, and I ask you to hold fast a little while longer. There must be some way –“

“What he would like to say,” the colonel said, overriding Jamie’s words, “is that you are dying because this man refuses to give up the most trivial information to save your skins. You are worth less to him than the mud beneath his feet. You die, and he stays in the most commodious rooms and dines from silver plate. He is a coward, and you will die for him.”

A shocked hush fell over the ragged company of men.

Jamie struggled for words. He could not tear his gaze from the faces of his company as they stared at him. “I –“

“Choose four, Major.”

“What?” Jamie stared up at the colonel in consternation.

“Did you not hear me? Choose the four you wish to sacrifice today.”

The breath suddenly left Jamie’s body. He felt as if he would faint, and remained upright through sheer force of will. “You – you cannot ask me to make that decision. I will not.”

The colonel shrugged. “If you cannot choose four, it will be eight.” A rustling gasp came from the prisoners.

“No! For God’s sake – you _cannot_ ask me that. Have pity, I – I implore you.” Jamie’s cheeks burned with shame. To be reduced to begging was intolerable, but there was no question of him choosing who among his men would die. He would die first. A gasp escaped him. It was the only possible solution. “Kill me instead, if you must kill someone. Make an example of me.”

The colonel merely snorted and turned away.

“Don’t tell him a bleeding thing, sir!” a voice called. “Sod ‘im!” 

A ragged cheer went up among the prisoners. 

“Tell him where he can stuff his trivial information!” another voice cried.

“And his mother, too!” Another cheer sounded, louder and more defiant. 

Jamie’s heart swelled with pride. “God bless you, lads,” he shouted hoarsely. “They will _never_ defeat us.”

“Eight!” the colonel shouted above another rally of cheers. He pointed at Charlie. “Start with this one!” 

Jamie felt himself dragged backward, pulled away from his men, who seemed on the verge of revolt, but the soldiers streamed in with bayonets and the butts of rifles, pounding and thrusting, and all too soon the prisoners were contained and marched back to their gaol as Jamie watched helplessly, fighting against the soldiers who held him back. Eight men, Charlie among them, were unceremoniously pushed toward the stone wall of the courthouse. A low buzzing sounded from the townspeople who watched with accusing eyes. There were too few of them to effect the least change.

Sixteen riflemen gathered in front of the wall. 

Charlie’s face was whiter than the dirty bandage around his head, but he met Jamie’s eyes and saluted briefly, then smiled.

“Murderers,” Jamie gasped, still twisting and thrashing in the soldiers’ grip. “God damn you all –“

The shots rang out, and the stone walls ran red.

*

He scarcely knew he was weeping when they hauled him back to his cell. Unable to kick, he smashed his head into one soldier’s chin, prompting the man to reel back with a curse. He backhanded Jamie hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. Apparently unsatisfied with that simple retribution, he kicked Jamie in the stomach, aggravating old bruises and driving the breath from his body. Jamie writhed on the floor, gasping like a fish. 

“You little bastard,” growled the soldier. He was even taller than Jamie and twice as broad. “You damn near made me bite my tongue off.” He kicked Jamie again. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Emil!” The second solider caught the arm of the first and wrenched him away. “You _will_ kill him if you don’t stop.” He heaved his companion away from Jamie and shoved him up against the wall. “Colonel Weber will have your head on a plate if you kill him.”

Emil, panting for breath, spat, then wiped his mouth. “Little _shit_.”

“All right, all right,” his friend said soothingly.

“I’m going to fix you,” Emil muttered. “Just wait.”

*

They hadn’t bothered to release his hands or feet, and Jamie spent hours trying to find a comfortable position on the floor that didn’t wrench his shoulders out of joint. He finally found relief simply sitting up against the wall, though it wouldn’t help him sleep. Not that it mattered – he’d given up sleep as a loss some time ago, with Charlie’s brave smile burned into his memory. Now and then he closed his eyes in an attempt to drive the horror away, but it lingered stubbornly, a spade struck against frozen ground.

_Charlie._

And Hallam, and Mitchell, and Talbot, and Bradford, and O’Meara, and Benchley, and Fawcett. Their names lay heavy upon his heart, each a thorn of remembrance. Casualties of war, harsh, appalling, no consolation whatsoever in the thought. Jamie could no longer pray; he merely waited in numb silence for whatever was to come next.

The door opened, and a tall figure was silhouetted on the threshold.

“English pig.”

Jamie stared in blank defeat at the hulking figure. “Go away,” he whispered.

“I can’t kill you,” the figure said in an equally soft tone, advancing into the room. “But I can make you wish you were never born.” The man crouched beside Jamie and placed a huge hand around his throat. “You make one sound and I’ll cut your tongue out.” The man’s other hand slipped down and lay hot and heavy on Jamie’s thigh.

With a sudden sour taste of fear sharp in his constricted throat, Jamie realised exactly what the man intended. “Get away from me, you _bastard._ ” He surged forward, but Emil, the soldier he’d injured earlier, slammed him back into the wall. The back of his head struck hard plaster, and stars whirled in his vision. He gasped for air as Emil shoved him brutally to the stone floor and forced him to his belly. _Oh, God, not this too –_

“Soft little bitch, aren’t you? You –“ A choked sound emerged from the man’s throat, and there was a sudden heavy thud. Jamie found himself rolled onto his back. He opened his mouth, and a strong hand clamped over it, silencing his outcry.

“Jamie!”

Jamie twisted as hard as he could, trying to bite the offending hand. A body pinned his to the floor, stilling his frantic struggling.

“Ouch! Jamie – Jamie, for God’s sake, be quiet!” a voice whispered in his ear. “Shh!”

_Can’t be. Oh God, I’m going mad._

“Jamie, hush. Hush, _please_. It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s Jim.” 

 

*


	3. And leave the soldiers at their drill

_Oh stay with company and mirth  
And daylight and the air;  
Too full already is the grave  
Of fellows that were good and brave  
And died because they were._

\---A.E. Houseman, _Oh, stay at home, my lad, and plough_

 

*

 

Had he not already been pinned to the floor, Jamie would have collapsed from shock and a horrifying weakness that suffused and paralysed his limbs. His vision, already unreliable from the lack of light, began to dim, and he could scarcely breathe under the weight of the body atop his. Wild terror and disbelief vied for primacy in his heart, and it was only by dint of extraordinary effort that he held himself perfectly still. Only then did the hand clamped over his mouth loosen, and he heard a shuddering sigh – familiar, blessedly familiar.

“Jamie,” the voice whispered in his ear. “You fight like a tiger, even chained.”

“Jim,” Jamie rasped, still afraid he was delirious.

“Yes.” The weight on Jamie’s chest lessened, and warm fingers framed his face briefly. “It’s Jim.” A figure, still silhouetted against the dim gaslight spilling in from the corridor, rose to its knees. “Dear Jamie.”

“Jim. Oh, good God, good _God_ –“ Jamie’s voice caught in his throat, and for a moment he was very much afraid he would burst into tears. “Jim, _how_ – you _fell_ –“ 

“I’m fine. Honestly, I am. I can explain it all – Jamie, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” Anger tinged Jim’s voice, and the figure leant forward to help Jamie sit up.

“No, I’m all right.” Jamie longed to rest his head against Jim’s shoulder and then stiffened with shame. Jim had witnessed at least some of the assault, had seen Jamie’s dignity hurled to the dust. “It’s nothing.”

Two strong arms encircled Jamie in a sudden tight embrace. “I was frightened for you.” Jim let Jamie go and turned to the man on the floor. “He must have keys in here, mustn’t he? Pockets….” He rummaged through the man’s clothes until he produced a satisfying jingle. “Ah! Perfect. Jamie, I hope to God the keys to your restraints are on here. We’ve got to hurry, once we get out of here. Are you strong enough to walk if I can free you?”

“Yes, I think so.” Jamie blinked, and for a moment his vision dimmed again. Once, just once in his life, he’d lost consciousness, when his brother Philip had brained him with a cricket bat. He felt now as he did upon awakening from the blow – a bit hazy and unreal, lacking only the throbbing pain and the goose egg that had sprouted on the back of his head. He swayed a bit, and Jim caught his arm.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Jamie screwed his eyes shut and opened them again. Jim’s dark silhouette tantalised him, but the voice was unmistakably his – low and sweet, with a pleasant unexpected catch now and again.

“Good. You’ve been through quite enough today, I think. Now – we’ve got to get you out of these blasted fetters. Wouldn’t be at all cricket to have you clanking and rattling down the corridor like a ghost, would it? One of these must fit. Turn round for me, there’s a good chap.”

Jamie turned obediently, resting his shoulder against the wall. “I thought you were dead,” he said softly, and felt tears choking him once more.

“To be candid, old man, so did I. But that’s a tale for later, I think. Oh – that’s the stuff!” Jim patted Jamie’s back and released one wrist from the cuffs, then another. “Excellent. I don’t imagine the leg irons use the same key. Were they awfully tight?”

“I’ll manage,” Jamie said, and stifled a groan as he brought his hands round and tried to massage life back into them.

“Dash it, which is the right one?” Jim muttered. “Ah, maybe this one. No. Here –“ There was a faint metallic scrape, and a soft cry of delight from Jim. “There! We’ll have you free in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He fumbled with the lock, then released Jamie’s ankles from the irons and set the chains on the floor. “How are your hands?” He grasped Jamie’s hands in his and rubbed them briskly. 

“Getting there,” Jamie said wryly, and closed his eyes to better feel the lovely sensation of Jim’s hands on his.

“Are you sure you’re all right? We’ve got to go now, if you can manage it.”

“I dare say I can.” Jamie tried to get up, and wobbled a bit. 

Jim leapt to his feet, pulling Jamie up with him. “Lean on me if you’re not feeling quite the thing.”

He would have – gladly – but Jim had seen him compromised enough for one day. He straightened with an effort. “I’m in fine fettle, Jim. Now how the bloody hell do we get out of here?” He glanced down at the soldier on the floor. “What did you –“

“I stabbed him. God help me, I’ve never done anything like that before and don’t want to again.” Jim’s voice trembled.

“Quite a good aim, though.” Jamie went to the door and looked down the corridor. “Clear.” He looked back at Jim and for the first time saw his face clearly. Stubborn emotion rose again and he did his best to tamp it down, but for a moment he could do no more than stare at Jim’s dear, handsome face. _Alive, he’s alive. Thank you, God. Thank you._ Jim was dressed in a rough smock-like shirt and woollen trousers, and wore gaiters and clumsy-looking brogues. A week’s worth of beard covered his face. “Jim, good God.”

Jim grinned. “How else was I supposed to steal in here? Do I look a fright?”

“You’re a perfect fright. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

“Well, it was sheer luck and the grace of God that got me this far. Now we’ve got to get out.” He drew close to Jamie and looked both ways down the corridor. “The officers quarter in the mayor’s house, and some of the enlisted men quarter upstairs. Only the two guards were on duty outside because you’re the only prisoner here. The servants won’t come ‘til morning.”

“What about the other guard?”

“Indisposed,” Jim replied quietly, his face still. “I heard him telling his friend that he was going to get some…well, going to visit a lady, but I have the feeling it wasn’t a welcome visit. Come on, we can get out through the back.”

Jim closed the door of Jamie’s cell, and they stole through the courthouse’s stone corridors until they came to a rear door. Jim opened it and peered out, then nodded to Jamie. “It’s all right.” He placed a hand on Jamie’s arm and guided him out into the still night air, disturbed only by the sounds of crickets and the soft, liquid trill of a night-singing bird. “We’ve got to head north. There’s a Red Cross auxiliary hospital in Langemark, and a French battalion nearby. English are on their way. There’s to be another battle soon, Jamie.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard. Come along.” Jim led Jamie past a hedgerow and into a dark alleyway. “There’s a patrol on the square and the main streets. Pity we can’t travel in a straight line, but there’s nothing for it.”

Jamie stopped, tugging at Jim’s loose sleeve. “Jim, wait.”

“What is it?” Jim turned, his face all but invisible in the starlit darkness.

“The others.”

Jim sighed. “Jamie…I can’t.”

“Jim, we can’t simply leave them behind.”

“We can’t. Jamie, we _can’t._ That storehouse is under heavy guard.”

Jamie’s face flooded with heat, with passionate, bitter confusion. “There must be something we can do. I shan’t leave them behind, Jim. I couldn’t. Charlie –“

“I know,” Jim whispered. His hand came up to cup the nape of Jamie’s neck, and he rested his forehead against Jamie’s briefly. “I know. I saw.”

“You…you saw?” Sudden shame, as cold and sharp as splintered ice, stabbed its way into Jamie’s chest.

“Yes. I watched. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Nothing. And I saw you as well, Jamie. My God, how brave you are.”

“Brave – Christ almighty, Jim.” Jamie gave a hollow laugh.

“Yes, brave. That was no choice, Jamie, no choice at all. Charlie knew that.”

“Oh, God –“ Jamie sagged against the cool brick of a wall and covered his face with his hands. “Jim, I cannot abandon them. You don’t understand. If we find a place to hide – wait until daylight to reconnoiter –“

“I _have_ reconnoitered. There are at any given time at least ten guardsmen with sidearms, as well as one of those rapid-fire monsters manned by a team of two.”

“But –“

“Think, Jamie, for heaven’s sake! It would be suicide. Two of us against at least ten of them, and the only weapon I’ve got is a damned kitchen knife.” He grasped Jamie’s arms and spoke into his ear. “Listen to me. Listen. They’re my friends too, Jamie. Good God, don’t you think I want to free them? But I can’t. Neither of us can. I can’t pretend to know exactly what’s in that hard head of yours, but I…I saw your face. I fancy I know you well enough to have an inkling of what you felt when they…when he tried to make you choose.”

 _So he saw that too._ “I –“ A hard, dry sob worked its way out of Jamie’s throat. Mortified, he swallowed back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Oh, Jamie –“ Jim’s arms went round him again and held tight. “I know. I know. But please – I risked my head to get you out tonight. I don’t – what I mean is that I just want you to stay alive. Please. We’ll join up with the lads in the infantry up north and let them know there are prisoners here. They might be able to rescue them. Please, Jamie, please.” Jim’s voice was hoarse. He pulled back and wiped under his eyes. “Besides, with you gone, the immediate threat to them might be lessened.”

Jamie nodded slowly as the truth of Jim’s words sank in. “Yes. You’re…you’re right, of course. I’m a liability to them.”

“You’re _not_ a liability. That’s not what I meant to say at all.”

“But it’s true. No, it is.”

“Jamie –“ Jim rested a placating hand on Jamie’s arm.

“I’m not angry or anything of the sort. It’s only – it’s quite a bitter pill to swallow, that’s all.” He stood straight again. There was no assuaging his conscience, but at least he could do his best not to worsen things. “You’re quite right. We can tell the first British officer we find. And Jim….” Jamie hesitated for a moment. “Thank you for coming after me. I didn’t mean to dismiss your courage. I’m honoured by it. I won’t let you down again, I promise.”

“I’m so glad I found you,” Jim whispered. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I hadn’t. And you couldn’t let me down if you tried.”

Jamie didn’t respond, but he wondered what he’d done to merit Jim’s extraordinary loyalty. _He’s alive_ , he told himself sternly. _You’ve got one miracle – that should be more than enough._

 

*

 

“There’s a field over there beyond that copse of trees. Corn, grown quite tall – easy enough to hide in.”

“Good. Let’s not waste another moment,” Jamie said. The town’s clock had just struck two.

They set out quietly for the trees, keeping low to the ground, and Jamie grasped Jim’s arm, pointing. There was a small fire in the distance – a patrol, likely. They moved east and heard the sound of male voices carrying in the still night air as they drew closer to the field.

“Think they’ve got bear here?”

“Bear, no. Boar, maybe.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, really. I wouldn’t say no to a nice plate of roasted boar, though.”

“Why, in God’s name? There’s perfectly nice ham back at quarters.”

“I don’t know. I feel like banging away at something, that’s all.”

Jamie and Jim crept to the edge of the copse. The cornfield was some fifty metres away. They could see the campfire now, and the four soldiers sitting round it, sharing out something from a long-necked bottle. Silently, they began to move toward the field.

They had almost reached it when Jim stepped on a dry branch. The crack was unnaturally loud; as Jamie and Jim dropped to the ground, a voice rang out in the darkness. “Stop! Who goes there?”

“Stupid,” another soldier said. “It’s a fox or something.”

Jamie waited in agonised silence. Surely, surely one of them would come to investigate.

“Or a boar,” another said.

“Maybe a bear,” someone else snickered.

“You going to look?”

“No. Are you?”

“No. Pass that bottle.”

Jamie nodded to Jim, and they began to crawl toward the field. The soldiers round the fire kept joking and laughing, clearly inebriated. Jamie breathed a sigh of relief as they slipped in between the first few tall stalks. The laughing voices of the soldiers were muffled. Jamie turned to Jim. “I think we can stand up now, old man,” he whispered.

“The thing to do now,” Jim whispered, rising slowly to his feet, “is not to get lost in all this.” He waved, rustling a leaf. The stalks were higher than their heads.

“We navigate by the stars, then.”

“Like a couple of old sailors,” Jim replied with a chuckle. “Very well. Lead on, Drake. You’ve got the –“ Jim’s words were suddenly drowned out by the roar of a rifle. Immediately they both dropped to the ground again.

“I heard something!” a voice called. “Over there!”

“Oh, sit down, for God’s sake, before you fall down.”

“I did. Truly.”

Jamie and Jim exchanged a glance, and in unspoken agreement rose and began moving quickly through the stalks.

“There! You hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s because you’re sitting on your arse.” Another shot echoed through the darkness.

“You scared, Helmut?”

“Well, I’m not going in there by myself.”

“Well, none of us are going in with you either, so you’re out of luck.”

“You’re all a bunch of bastards.” A shot sounded again, and another, and Jamie reeled in shock as Jim gave a low cry and dropped to the ground.

“Jim –“ Jamie knelt and began to feel for a wound. “Jim, what –“

“My leg,” Jim said softly. “Upper thigh. Oh –“

Jamie touched Jim’s leg and felt warm wetness. “Christ, no….” Terrified, he glanced up, half-expecting to see the looming figure of a German soldier standing over them, but he saw only shadows brushing gently against more shadows, and heard the soft, rustling dark of the cornstalks all around them. “God damn it.”

The voices of the soldiers sounded again, further away. “Get back here!” one called. “It’s nothing!”

Jamie closed his eyes, uttered a wordless prayer, and bent to examine Jim’s wounded leg as best he could in the starlight.

“Don’t. Don’t touch it.” Jim grasped Jamie’s hand. “I think I can manage all right.” He started to get up and sank back with a shaking moan.

“Lie still,” Jamie said. “Don’t move, you’ll only make it bleed more.”

Jim shook his head and groped for the front of Jamie’s tunic. “Jamie, listen. There’s another village beyond the field, a hamlet really. The Red Cross auxiliary is in the next town from that.” Pain choked his voice into a tight whisper. “Perhaps they can send someone after me.”

A shocked, disbelieving laugh forced itself from Jamie’s mouth. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You’ll have to.” Jim struggled to rise again, but he only got to his elbows before falling back with another soft, agonised cry. “You must.”

“The hell I will.” He unknotted his tie and whipped it off, wrapping it around Jim’s leg above the wound. _God help me. I’ve only the faintest idea how to do this._ “Lie still, Jim. I can’t see a deuced thing.”

“Not going anywhere.” Jim’s voice was slurred. “Jamie.”

A trickle of sweat ran down Jamie’s back. His face felt hot and damp, and his hands trembled as they applied the emergency tourniquet. “What?”

“I think I broke it, too. When I fell. Sorry.”

“One thing at a time, old man.” He felt the blood running from Jim’s thigh onto his already slippery hands. _Oh, Christ, so much blood._

“It hurts….”

Jamie was forcibly, horribly reminded of the young subaltern on the smoking battlefield. Fear and anxiety gave his voice a harshness he didn’t intend. “It’s just the leg, Jim. You’ll be all right. I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about leaving you behind, is that clear?”

There was a silence, and then a quivering chuckle. “Bossy Knickers, that’s what you are.”

“That’s right. And I outrank you, so button your lip, Captain.” Jamie tightened the tourniquet and wiped his bloody hands on his trousers. “Now…I’m going to help you up. If you can’t manage on one leg, I shall carry you, and I don’t want any back-talk.”

“All right.”

Jamie got up and planted his feet firmly. “Now, you’re going to put all your weight on the good leg. Never mind the other, just let it go limp. And you’re to tell me if you can’t bear it.” He grasped Jim’s hands and carefully pulled him upward. Jim let out a groan between clenched teeth, but at last stood upright.

“All right?” Jamie inquired.

“Yes,” Jim said, and pitched forward. 

Jamie caught him before he slumped to the ground, holding him under the arms and trying not to teeter over himself. “Jim? Oh, God, Jim.” Even in starlight, Jim’s face was terribly pale and frighteningly still. 

There was nothing for it but to carry him. It would be slow going, but he wouldn’t abandon Jim even if the Germans found them and shot them both. Gritting his teeth, he braced Jim’s body with his own, bent down, and heaved Jim up over his shoulder. His breath gusted out of his chest – Jim was heavier than he’d expected. 

_No matter. Start moving._

 

*

 

The sky had become that peculiar, ineffable shade of blue that only occurred in summer dawnings, cool and serene, but Jamie took no pleasure in it. He needed to find them shelter, and quickly. They weren’t so far away from the garrison town that they were free and clear from any soldiers who might have been ordered to find an escaped prisoner. 

Panting, Jamie sank to his knees and lowered Jim to the ground. He’d done his best, but he’d been obliged to stop several times to rest, and each time he found his feet again, Jim seemed heavier than before. He’d remained unconscious, though – better than enduring the pain of his leg, Jamie decided. 

Now, though, Jim’s eyes fluttered open. “Jamie,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Jamie could feign bluff heartiness with the best of them. “Sorry for what, old man?” he asked, trying to disguise his panting.

“Burden. To you. Sorry.”

“Oh, rubbish. I reckon it’s good training, carrying around twelve stone of wounded captain. I only wanted to see that you weren’t….” Jamie trailed off. Almost involuntarily, he rested a hand on Jim’s forehead. It was hot and dry. _Feverish. Must find a doctor, and quickly._

“I’m all right. I think I can walk for a bit.”

“And I think you can’t. Enough chattering, we’ve got to get a move on.” Already he regretted stopping. It would be more difficult to lift Jim, mindful of his pain, and every one of Jamie’s limbs trembled with fatigue.

“This wasn’t the sort of rescue I’d planned.” A weary smile curled the corners of Jim’s mouth upward.

“Well, I’m…glad to return the favour.” Jamie felt a real smile tugging at his own mouth. “Right, time to go. There’s a farmhouse just over the next rise – I’m going to get us to the barn, and then we’ll decide what to do from there.” _Last bit for now_ , he told himself, and heaved his aching, weary body into a crouch. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jim said. “It doesn’t sting as badly now.” He smiled again, but his glazed pale-blue eyes belied the casual dismissal. He let out a hissing sound as Jamie hauled him up again, and then emitted the smallest of whimpers.

“God, I’m so sorry –“

“No. Don’t mind me. Keep going, Jamie. We haven’t got far to go now.”

Jamie would have liked to have kept up a steady stream of chatter to distract Jim, but he didn’t have the energy to carry his friend and talk at the same time. He staggered the last length to the farm and headed for the barn. “We’ll rest in here a bit, old man.” The door was slightly ajar; he pushed it open and froze at the sight of an old man carrying a sloshing pail of milk toward him.

The old man started, and then stood his ground. He barked something in a language Jamie didn’t understand.

 _Flemish,_ Jamie thought despondently. _Bloody hell._ Nonplussed, he tried his poor German, hoping there were enough similarities in the two languages for the man to comprehend him, if the sight of Jim’s dreadful state wasn’t enough to convey their distress. “ _Bitte…bitte…mein freund…verwundet_.”

The man drew closer and examined Jamie’s uniform. “ _Engels_?”

Jamie nodded eagerly. “ _Ja._ ” Without asking permission, he carried Jim to the baled hay stacked neatly against one wall and settled him as carefully as he could. Jim had slipped back into a sludgy semi-consciousness, and gave a feeble groan as Jamie arranged his limbs on the hay. “ _Mein freund_ ,” he said, unable for the life of him to think of the word for ‘doctor’ – “ _Verwundet. Bitte._ ”

The man answered in a steady stream of unintelligible words that ended in the miraculous “ _dokter._ ”

“Yes, yes,” Jamie said, nearly weeping with exhaustion and gratitude. “Doctor, please. I beg you.”

The old man patted his shoulder, gestured toward the bale of hay, held up one finger, and trudged out of the barn, closing the door behind him.

Jamie stared at the closed door, then gazed in bemusement at the lowing cow in a nearby stall. _I hope to Christ he’s actually going to get a doctor and I haven’t walked us into a trap._ For a moment, fear clenched his insides and he contemplated picking Jim up again and getting out, but where would they go? If one citizen was willing to betray them, why not others?

No – he wouldn’t risk moving in open daylight, nor would he risk further injury to Jim. If they were meant to make their last stand in a Flemish barn surrounded by cows, then on his head be it. He hadn’t much choice now. 

He stepped close to Jim and knelt beside him, examining the wounded leg as best he could. There wasn’t much blood loss, after he’d applied the makeshift tourniquet – he hoped he hadn’t stanched the flow so much there was danger of the flesh dying. He loosened the tie a bit and winced as Jim groaned from the depths of his unconsciousness. “Jim…it’s all right. The farmer’s going to fetch a doctor, I think. I hope, at any rate.” He glanced around, realising how unbearably thirsty he suddenly was, and that Jim likely needed water as well. There must be a pump outside.

It was still dark enough to conceal his actions. Jamie took a clean pail from a shelf, stole outside, and found the water pump quickly enough. He drank some straight from the pump, grateful for the bright trickling that slaked his parched throat, and collected some in the pail. He went back to the barn, conscious of growing daylight, and hurried to Jim’s side once more.

How still he was, how terrifyingly white. The scrub of beard on his face made him seem older than his twenty-four years, and his cheeks looked sunken, as if he hadn’t eaten properly since the battle. _Probably hadn’t_ , Jamie thought regretfully. _Poor devil._ He tipped some water into his hand and poured an infinitesimal amount carefully between Jim’s parted lips. 

What must it have cost him to know his comrades had been either killed or captured, to watch them slaughtered, and to yet scrape up the courage to rescue his commanding officer? What Jamie truly knew about Captain James Nicholls would have filled a very slim volume indeed: he knew that his father was a moderately successful manufacturer of bathtubs and extraordinarily stingy with an allowance, that he expected Jim to follow him into the trade and that Jim had no desire to do so, hence the parsimony, that his mother was half-Irish and a Catholic and that Jim had gone to a Catholic boys’ school as a child where the brothers had taught him to ride and handle horses, that he had one sister named Pauline, nick-named Pansy, aged sixteen and anxious to come out into society. 

Those were the facts; what remained was simply the distillation of the time they had spent together – that Jim was honest and good-humored in most situations, that he was unfailingly courteous and far more gentle in manner than most men of Jamie’s class, that he was a superior officer, calm and confident, and that Jamie admired him more than any man he’d ever met. Had, in point of fact, admired him until his heart ached and it strained the outermost reaches of Jamie’s ability to maintain a cool, friendly distance – not always easy given Jim’s frank sweetness. Now he wished he’d been more demonstrative, that Jim knew how great was Jamie’s esteem for him.

Tentatively, Jamie touched Jim’s cheek, and then gave in to impulse and kissed it with the utmost gentleness. Wiping the moisture from beneath his eyes, he crawled onto the bale of hay next to Jim and fell into a weary sleep.

 

*

 

The sound of voices jolted him from slumber. He sat up, utterly bewildered, and saw Jim sitting up as well, and a small man in a rusty-looking black suit sitting beside him.

“There you are, slugabed,” Jim said with a merry, if strained, smile.

“What’s happening?”

“Well, Dr. Mandelbaum here is doing what he can to patch up my leg.” Jim indicated the small man with a gesture. “Dr. Mandelbaum, may I introduce my commanding officer, Major James Stewart?”

The small man nodded at him. “Major, a pleasure.” His English was heavily accented, but perfectly understandable. “You will forgive me for not shaking your hand,” he said, holding up blood-stained fingers that clasped a needle.

“Delighted,” Jamie said, rising to a sitting position. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and saw that Jim was sitting atop a white sheet and that his trousers had been removed. His modesty was preserved by the length of the rustic smock he wore. Jamie forced himself to meet Jim’s eyes and not gaze at his long and quite handsome legs. “Have you got enough light to see?”

“This is only the most…how do you say it, the most rudimentary surgery,” Dr. Mandelbaum said.

“A bit of bad news, Jamie,” Jim said softly.

Jamie’s heart sank. “What is it?”

“The bullet has hit the bone, and I fear there remain shards inside the leg,” the doctor replied. “The wound now requires closer attention, but if we were to transport him to my surgery, the patrols would surely see and suspect.”

“Patrols!”

“Yes,” Jim sighed. “I’m afraid so, old man.” He reached over and pressed Jamie’s hand. “Dr. Mandelbaum has very kindly dispatched a brave young lady to go to Langemark to beg for an ambulance. The Red Cross, you know, has –“

“Yes,” Jamie murmured. “But, Doctor – the leg. Isn’t an operation rather urgent? Isn’t there a risk of infection?”

The doctor nodded sadly. “It is, but I have cleaned the wound as best I can. If your friend was caught, Major, he would be shot immediately. The soldiers have not been so very kind to us.”

Jamie turned to Jim. “How are you getting on?”

“I feel better,” Jim replied stoutly. “Dr. Mandelbaum gave me some perfectly marvelous pills – opium, yes, Doctor?”

Dr. Mandelbaum smiled. “Close enough, Captain. Some Bayer as well.”

“And Mrs. Joos, the dear woman in the farmhouse, brought me some breakfast. She left some for you, too, but you were sleeping so soundly I didn’t dare wake you.” Jim pointed. “It’s over there. You must be famished.”

Jamie tried to cudgel his brains into a sensible reply. “How long until the ambulance arrives?”

“I cannot say,” Dr. Mandelbaum said. “There has been no nearby battle, so if God is good, possibly eight or ten hours – that is, if there are no delays.”

“Ten hours!” Jamie rose on shaking legs. Hunger, fatigue, fear? It mattered little now – what mattered was quick and decisive action. “We haven’t that much time. There must be a way to convey him to your surgery. A cart, perhaps, where he can be concealed.”

“Major, the patrols are out. They are suspicious. They suspect us of hoarding food better meant for their own bellies, they suspect us of smuggling produce to your soldiers – my own daughter was nearly speared at the end of their bayonets for the audacious crime of carrying a covered basket of apples. If you, or your friend were to be caught, I could not live with myself for allowing it. Please – patience. If Captain Nicholls stays quiet and still, he will not further inflame the wound. We will hope and pray.”

Jamie sank back onto the bale of hay. “Hope and pray and stay trapped and helpless.”

“I don’t want to endanger anyone else, Jamie,” Jim said quietly. “If Dr. Mandelbaum was suspected of helping us, then he too would be subject to reprisals.”

Chastened, Jamie nodded his head and pressed his hands to his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I realise that. I’m sorry, Doctor. Please forgive me.”

Dr. Mandelbaum waved the hand not holding the needle. “I understand your anxiety, Major. And your steadfast devotion to your friend is most excellent. ‘A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one finds a treasure.’ I promise you this: if the ambulance is not here by tomorrow morning, I will do everything in my power to help you. I swear it.”

“You’re most kind,” Jamie said.

Dr. Mandelbaum wiped his hands on a corner of the sheet. “I have done what I can. Here are two more of the wondrous pills Captain Nicholls found so restful. You will please see that he takes them with food in ten hours. I will return tomorrow morning; I hope by then you will be gone. Stay still, Captain.” He stood and nodded at Jamie once more. “I wish you good day, Major.” He gave a brief bow and made his way silently from the barn.

Some distance away, the sound of church bells floated into the barn.

“Sunday morning,” Jim commented. “Hasn’t even been a week since…Jamie, please eat something.”

Jamie turned to Jim. “How are you feeling? And be honest, Jim. Please.”

“I’ve felt better, I don’t mind telling you. But the pills help a bit. I’m feeling a bit sleepy again, in fact. Grab hold of that breakfast and come keep me company before the cow breaks out of her pen and eats it on you. I was staring her in the eye when the doctor was patching me up and I think she has designs on those lovely seed-cakes.”

Jamie took a wooden tray bearing a plate of food, a glass of milk, and a napkin, and brought it back to the bales of hay. Looking at it, he realised he was famished. He sat and began eating with intense appetite, savouring every bite of the rosy ham, the slices of creamy white cheese, the seed-cake drizzled with honey.

“Good man,” Jim said. “Like as not I’m going to sound like your mother, but it’s lovely to see you eat.”

Jamie mustered a faint grin. “Mother hasn’t much regard for food. Ask her about the latest fashions, though, and she’s a whirlwind of enthusiasm. Are you up to telling me how you managed to escape, avoid the attention of the Germans, and effect a rescue?”

“It wasn’t due to my cleverness, I can tell you that. I was overlooked – that’s the long and short of it.” Jim shook his head. “Another horse collided with poor Joey in the melee and I fell. Must have hit my head, because when I awoke the battle was over, I was face-down in the dirt, and Joey was gone. Poor Albert. I don’t suppose he’ll ever see his horse again, and he did love him so.”

“Didn’t the Germans find you?”

“I had fallen into a clump of bushes – blasted prickly things – and I reckon I was still and quiet enough not to attract attention. When I finally crawled out of the brambles, the last of the soldiers were marching toward the garrison town. They’d left the carnage behind. It was….” Jim shook his head. “Well, you saw. You must have seen.”

“Yes,” Jamie said.

“At any rate, I followed at a distance. Wasn’t far to go, and I found my way to someone’s storage shed and bunked down until nightfall. Then I stole some clothes from a laundry line – not very kind of me, but I was desperate, Jamie – and mussed my hair and skulked around until I discovered what had become of the surviving lads – and of you. My German’s terrible, but I got the gist of it. I was frantic with worry.”

“But the risk, Jim! My God, you could have been captured yourself.”

“I almost was.” Jim offered a wan smile. “A patrol stopped me just after dawn, but I affected to be deaf and dumb. I couldn’t believe it worked. They treated me like the dirt under their feet after that, and I found my way around with little difficulty after that. Well, and after I paid the town baker five guineas to pretend I was his assistant.”

Jamie wiped his mouth on the rough, but clean linen towel that had been laid under the plate of food. “You’d make a marvelous spy, old man.”

“I doubt it. My heart was in my throat the entire time. I waited after that – for an opportunity, any chance to find you. Last night they left the service door unlocked, and I walked in quite boldly. People don’t look at servants much, you know.” He shook his head. His eyes seemed to lose their focus.

“Jim?”

“Hm? It’s nothing. At any rate, I watched that…catastrophe…yesterday. Jamie –“ Jim’s hand rested on Jamie’s leg. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

Jamie set his tray aside. He glanced around at the immaculately kept interior of the barn, then at the weave of the linen sheet Jim sat on, noting the warp and weft of the threads where blood had stained it red. He looked at his hands, bruised and stiff with dried blood. Jim’s blood. Why hadn’t he washed them at the pump? Finally he met Jim’s eyes. “How not, Jim?” His heart ached so badly. “How not?”

Jim’s mouth curved upward. He rubbed Jamie’s thigh affectionately. “Dear Jamie.” His voice was slurring once more. “It’s not our war any longer. Horses against that terrible machinery. It’s a nightmare. Dreadful. We need modern munitions.” He yawned. “Seems clear in retrospect, but then…everything does, doesn’t it?”

The light pressure of Jim’s hand burned Jamie’s thigh; despite the arduous nature of their plight, he reveled in the touch, far too precious to abandon. “I’ve exhausted you, forcing you to talk. Sleep a while.”

“Dear, dear Jamie.” Jim sighed and lay down. The farmer had thoughtfully provided a quilt and a pillow, and Jamie arranged the pillow beneath Jim’s head and covered him with the quilt. Jim reached up and caught Jamie’s hand. “Will you stay with me while I sleep?”

“Of course, Jim. After all, where else would I go?”

A crooked, drowsy smile flitted across Jim’s face. “You’re such a wit, old man.”

“Hush.” Jamie couldn’t resist smoothing Jim’s tousled, dirty curls back from his forehead. “Sleep now.”

The model of obedience, Jim closed his eyes. “Stay,” he whispered.

Jamie caressed Jim’s face and resisted the urge to kiss his mouth. “I’m not leaving you.”

 

*

 

His vigil lasted all day and into the night. After a sound slumber, Jim fretted in a state of semi-consciousness, muttering and groaning and alarming Jamie no end. Jamie watched him anxiously, testing the hot, dry skin of his forehead, giving him water and the soup Mrs. Joos brought out to them, and finally the two pills Dr. Mandelbaum had left behind. He was profoundly grateful when Jim fell into a deeper sleep. Night fell, and with it came a thunderstorm, sweeping the barn with rain and the delicious smell of water, but Jamie couldn’t appreciate it; he watched Jim without cease, fearing that any moment would be a decided turning of Jim’s footsteps on a path toward eternity. Jim’s respiration had begun to rattle in and out of his chest, his fever grew higher, and he cried out in his sleep, striking out with his hands, battling some invisible enemy.

Jamie considered trying to wake him – would it be better to be conscious and in pain, or unconscious and terrified? – when there was a light tap on the barn door. Thinking it was Mr. Joos, the farmer, Jamie went cautiously to the door and recoiled at the sight of two unfamiliar faces, both male. Terrified, he scrabbled for the scythe he had lifted from the wall hours before, but a voice gave him pause – a voice that was soft and warm, and French-accented.

“Are you Major Stewart?”

Jamie held the scythe. “Who’s asking?”

“Hilaire DuPlessis and Henri Beauchamp – Red Cross.”

“Oh, thank God.” Jamie grasped the door to keep himself upright. “Thank God.”

 

*


	4. No more the knight of dreams and show

_You are aware that once I sought the Grail,  
Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;  
And it was told that through my infant wail  
There rose immortal semblances of song._

\---Siegfried Sassoon, _The Poet as Hero_

*

It was a cautious balance of deference, aversion, and hope that propelled Jamie past bed after bed in the grey, carbolic-smelling ward of the auxiliary hospital. In each narrow iron bed was an unlucky soldier: some sitting up and looking fit as fiddles, flirting with the nurses in their aprons and headdresses like medieval wimples, some tossing restlessly and crying out in the grip of morphia or uneasy dreams, some simply lying white and still, swathed in bandages. It was past these last men that Jamie sped most quickly. The sight of them in their swaddlings and their ghostly silences, some without arms or legs or both, one or two wrapped head to toe like Egyptian mummies, was too much to bear. The pity he felt for them – pity he was sure would be scorned, if the suffering men knew of it – was too much to bear. 

His thoughts were wrenched back to his men still imprisoned in the garrison town, some wounded, some perhaps dying. They would, the Red Cross workers had assured him, do their best to reach them, but it was far from a certainty. That, also, was too much to bear.

“Jamie!”

Startled out of his musings, Jamie turned clumsily on his heel.

“Were you going to visit someone else?” Jim, sitting in his narrow bed, raised a hand and beamed. 

“Jim!” Jamie hastened to his side. “I was wool-gathering, I’m sorry – good heavens, look at you. You’re topping, positively the bee’s knees!” He clasped Jim’s outstretched hand, careful not to jostle the bed, and drank in the sight of Jim’s face. He’d been bathed and shaved and his hair combed into place, though errant curls did their best to escape, and if he was still pale and slightly drawn, he looked a thousand times more hale and hearty than he had in the farmer’s barn.

“Do you really think so? I feel ever so much better, I can’t begin to tell you. The nurses will get awfully thundery in the face if you try to sit on the bed, so drag up a rock from over there –“ Jim pointed to a wooden chair against the wall – “and do sit down. I’ve been dreadfully lonely and aching for company.”

Jamie retrieved the chair and sat, taking off his cap and resting it at the foot of Jim’s bed. “I’d have come earlier if they’d have permitted it. I was worried half to death and couldn’t find one blasted person to tell me what was happening with you.”

“I’m sorry for it, but I’m not surprised. There are so many wounded, and far too few to care for them. I didn’t get the news on my own surgery until just a few hours ago.”

“And what is it?”

“Well, they managed to get the bullet out –“

“Thank God.” Jamie let out a long, low breath.

“But it will take some time for the bone to heal. Months, apparently, and I may have to walk with a cane after that. Still, I’ve _got_ the ruddy thing attached to me yet – some of the other poor devils here weren’t so lucky.”

“I saw,” Jamie said grimly.

“You can’t know how truly good it is to see you, Jamie,” Jim said. “I was pathetic and forlorn without you. One of the nurses – really sweet girl – keeps asking if I want her to read to me, but I can’t bear people reading to me. I told her I’ve been doing all my own reading since I was twenty, but I don’t think she quite understood the joke.”

Jamie smiled. “Poor thing. You mustn’t tease her. At any rate, she probably just wanted an excuse to talk to a handsome fellow. I’d say you’re quite the handsomest chap on the ward. You don’t look at all the way you did when they brought you in.”

“Neither do you,” Jim rejoined with a wide grin. “You’re looking spruce again yourself, old man. I’m glad.” 

“Yes.” Jamie crossed one leg over the other and examined the toe of his newly polished boot. “Had a word with the infantry commander stationed here. I’m to accompany you home.”

“Why, that’s wonderful! Oh, that’s _marvelous_ news, Jamie.”

“Mm. Apparently there’s some sort of reprieve or dispensation for rescued prisoners of war.”

Jim’s smile dimmed. “You don’t seem excessively delighted.”

Jamie shook his head. “I’m not sorry to be headed home with you, Jim. You mustn’t think that. But I’m not certain whether this is a reward or a punishment. I rather expected to have to give an accounting of myself, but –“ He broke off at the sound of a long, low, eerie moan a few beds away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“Poor man,” Jim murmured. “He moans and weeps almost incessantly, and they’ve had to tie him to the bed. I think they might have to take him to an insane asylum. I can’t think what he might have seen to make him so…so shattered.” He shook his head, then turned his attention back to Jamie. “Look here, Jamie – I’d have thought you’d be happy to be getting away from the war.”

“I suppose I should be.” Jamie smiled tightly. He drew off his gloves and twisted them in his hands. “But I’m alive and unhurt. So why am I being sent home?”

“I wonder, did they – did they ask you anything about the time you spent imprisoned? Anything about what happened to you?”

Jamie felt a hot flush rising in his cheeks. “As I said, I’m unhurt.”

Jim nodded and affected to examine the texture of his bedding. “Of course. It must be frustrating. I understand.”

“Jim…I’m sorry. You’re ill, and I’m beastly rude.” Jim peered up at him, and Jamie felt his heart give a tiny extra larrup at the sight of that open, handsome face. “I didn’t thank you properly for saving my skin.”

“Well, you saved mine. That’s a proper thanks if I’ve ever had one.”

“No, I mean….” Jamie swallowed, and his face burned even hotter than before. “I mean precisely when you did. What you – what you walked in on. It….”

Jim leaned over and placed his hand on Jamie’s restlessly twisting fingers, squeezing them reassuringly. “Jamie.”

Jamie stared down at Jim’s hand, afraid to move or meet that steadfast blue gaze. “Please don’t tell anyone about it.”

“I would never. Upon my word, I won’t.”

“I’m in quite enough disgrace already.” Jamie tried for a laugh and failed. “At any rate, thank you. For that, and for the rescue, and, well – for being such a stand-up chap.” This time he succeeded in looking Jim in the eye.

“I won’t say ‘think nothing of it’ because I don’t intend to forget that you saved my life, Jamie, or pass it off lightly. And I’ll stand up in any court-martial, any board of inquiry, or anyone who dares to question your bravery and I’ll tell them that Major James Stewart is a superior officer.” Jim’s fingers tightened on Jamie’s hands, and his expression was both earnest and sweet. “That he led a forlorn hope against terrible machinery, that he faced imprisonment with courage, that he was a model of military silence, and that he refused to condemn his own men and volunteered to sacrifice himself in their stead. That’s what I’ll tell them, and woe betide them if they won’t listen.”

Utterly unused to such passionate and personal declarations, Jamie sat stunned and mute. He dropped his gaze again and yearned to protest when Jim sat back, withdrawing his hand. Forcing his own fingers to remain still, he took a few shallow breaths. “How could I possibly emerge anything but triumphant with a champion like you, Jim?” he asked softly.

“Don’t poke fun, Jamie. I meant it.”

“So did I.” Again Jamie met Jim’s gaze and felt iron bands squeezing his heart. Jim would go home a wounded hero, and flocks of young women would vie for his attention. Well, he deserved it – he _was_ a hero. He deserved the accolades and the feminine favours and soft declarations of adoration. Any girl who managed to marry him would be lucky indeed. He imagined Jim at the altar of some church, tall and gallant in his blue uniform, a white-swathed figure beside him. Shocked at the sudden jolt of pain the image gave him, he cleared his throat abruptly. “I ought to be cutting a caper, oughtn’t I? I must say it softens the blow considerably to know that you’ll be home and safe, old man, and it’ll be splendid to have company on the journey. Perhaps you’ll – that is, I wonder if you’d mind if I called upon you at home? Just to see how you’re getting along.”

A wide smile lit up Jim’s face. “I’d be desolate if you didn’t.”

“Jolly good.” Jamie stretched out his hand – to seal the bargain, he told himself, and not to feel the warm pressure of Jim’s hand again – and shook firmly. “We’re agreed, then. You do know how to cheer a fellow, Jim.”

“Perhaps some more than others. I hope so, anyway.” Jim dropped his gaze once more. “Want to see my cast? It’s dreadful – have a look.” He pulled the bedclothes back to reveal a plaster cast that went from his ankle to his knee. “I did break the confounded thing after all. And here –“ He yanked up his nightshirt to reveal the dressing on his thigh. “The doctor said you did the right thing when you put a tourniquet on it.”

“I wasn’t sure it _was_ the right thing,” Jamie admitted. 

“Well, it was. A double injury on the same leg, though. Just my luck! I don’t know how I’ll be able to sit still while it heals. You’ll have to come and visit quite a lot.”

“I can see I’ll have to.”

Jim smiled again. “Good.”

*

 

Jamie couldn’t claim to be any sort of expert on women’s clothing, but it seemed quite clear that the concoction of midnight-blue satin and net and glittering beads that his mother wore was fairly new and quite expensive indeed. New, too, was the pearl-and-diamond necklace wrapped around her throat, and the matching earrings dangling from her lobes, and the pearl and diamond ornaments in her hair. Her spending habits hadn’t changed a whit because of the war, obviously. He drew on his cigarette and glanced round at the drawing room, observing a painting over the mantel he hadn’t seen before, a young woman with long titian hair, wearing a yellow cloak and standing against a blue curtain. It seemed a trifle gloomy, but was unmistakably the work of genius.

“Millais,” Margaret Stewart said, following Jamie’s gaze. “I know it’s a bit out of fashion, but I simply had to have it.”

Jamie smiled behind a screen of smoke. “It’s lovely, Mother.” He took a glass from the tray proffered by…blast it, he couldn’t think of the young man’s name, but he was a boy, scarcely old enough to shave. The only indication in the Stewart household that there was a war on was that most of the able-bodied male servants had enlisted, leaving behind the women, old men, and boys. Otherwise things ticked on as smoothly as they had before Jamie had left. “It was awfully good of you both to come down.”

Jamie’s father Charles nodded genially. His face was pink with the quantity of wine he’d imbibed at dinner. “Delighted, my boy. And your mother was ecstatic to get away for a while.”

“Beastly weather,” Margaret said.

“Hah!” Charles’ laugh came like a distant explosion. He pointed at the window, where rain beat steadily against the glass. “Hardly balmy here, Meg. She was hoping for a more social visit,” he confided to Jamie, “but the ladies in London are even more patriotic than the ladies in Scotland. Knitting committees, nursing committees, bandage-rolling committees. Imagine her disappointment at not being able to parade around in gowns and furs. Having to tuck up her skirts and deliver supplies to hospitals? Joining the Land Army? Oh, the pain.” Charles snipped off the end of a cigar and lit it.

“Oh, do be quiet. I can’t help it if I think it’s dreary. I’ve sent money to the Red Cross and the Ladies Aid society of St. Andrew’s – what else do you want me to do? Go about and chop wood in a pair of trousers? Besides, what have _you_ done for the war effort, Charles?”

“Not a damned thing, clearly.” Charles exhaled a cloud of smoke. “If you paid attention to anything but the fashions, you’d see –“

“Do you intend to stay long?” Jamie asked, a trifle desperately. He’d been accustomed to a certain amount of his parents’ wrangling since boyhood, but fortunately he’d missed most of it thanks to school and summer holidays. He’d been home for two days and already the constant squabbling was beginning to wear on his nerves. 

“The season will be starting soon enough, so I think we’ll be here for some time.” Margaret beamed at him. “I expect you’ll be receiving dozens of invitations, Jamie dear. Men – particularly young, handsome men – are rather scarce on the ground at the moment.”

“I don’t think I’m up to attending many parties, Mother.”

Margaret looked scandalised. “Jamie, you’ve simply _got_ to go. What will people think if you don’t?” Her face softened a bit. “Darling, I know it must have been difficult for you…I do wish you’d tell us what happened.”

“I did tell you,” Jamie replied tersely. “I was captured and held prisoner until my friend Captain Nicholls rescued me.”

“You needn’t be cross.” Margaret took a rapid sip of her port. “Am I wrong to be concerned? You’ve been quite silent since your return – locked up in your bedroom, refusing to see visitors.”

Jamie stifled a sigh. His mother’s idea of seeing visitors was parading him in front of them as if he were a captive war-chief in a Roman triumph. “I realise you mean well, Mother, but I’m not myself at the moment.”

“Heard about the charge,” Charles said.

Jamie stiffened. “Who told you?”

“I’ve got an old friend at Whitehall, Will Gardiner. Fought alongside him in South Africa. Quite a decent chap. He wrote me.” Charles drew on his cigar and regarded Jamie soberly. “What happened, lad?”

 _What happened? I led my regiment into utter disaster and lost most of them. I was stripped of every bit of dignity and honour, I was beaten and humiliated, I watched my men shot for my recalcitrance, and I would have been violated were it not for Jim Nicholls. Rather a lot happened, Father._ “I made a strategic miscalculation. Quite dire, as it turns out.”

Charles examined him for a long, wordless moment, then nodded. “Well, you’re back home now, that’s what matters.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “Frightful brutes, those Germans. When I think about the stories I’ve heard…I worry about your brother, too.”

Jamie stubbed out his cigarette, carefully avoiding his mother’s eyes. Philip had been demoted to the ranks for fighting and drunkenness, and in Jamie’s considered opinion, the poor devils in the ranks didn’t deserve his odious presence. At the rate he was going, he’d wind up in prison in short order. “Yes. Have you heard from him recently?”

“No. He’s not much of a letter-writer. So busy,” Margaret said.

“Busy drinking,” Charles snorted.

“Charles!”

“Father, Mother – excuse me. I find I’m rather tired.” Jamie stood and nodded to them. “Good night.” He turned without waiting for their reply and made his way to the staircase. He brushed his hand lightly along the cool marble surface of the banister as he ascended, remembering all the times he’d slid down the thing when nobody was watching to scream at him or give his ear a twist – or in Philip’s case, to try to knock him off. Philip always _had_ been a nasty, scheming brute, but his father hadn’t realised it until he’d grown into adulthood, and his mother still didn’t.

He went into his bedroom and sank to the bed. His mother was right; he’d been cross and moody – no, downright sour and unpleasant since returning home, and he’d no-one to blame but himself. Neither of his parents deserved his anger. He resolved to show them a cheerier face – they’d been so pleased to see him, they’d actually met him at Victoria Station themselves, making a rather touching if embarrassing fuss over him. They’d been effusive to Jim, too, exchanging proud greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls before whisking Jamie away, scarcely giving him a chance to say good-bye to Jim.

Jamie toed off his evening pumps and fumbled with his cufflink. He wondered what Jim was up to – probably having a nice, normal dinner in Kent with his parents and sister, reading, listening to music. Upon their parting at the station, Jim had again urged him to visit, and Jamie was tempted to go immediately, but it wouldn’t have been at all polite to descend upon his family when they were so eager to have Jim home, and besides, he needed peace and quiet to heal. Jamie would have to wait at least a few weeks before it was acceptable to visit. Pity.

There was a soft scratch at the door, and the young boy who’d acted as footman poked his head in. “Mr. Sherston says I’m to help you undress, sir.”

“Ah. Come in.” Jamie extended his wrist toward the young man. “Just in time. I can’t seem to manage this bloody cufflink.”

“I’ll get it, sir,” the boy said confidently, and applied himself to working the link free.

Jamie regarded the boy with curiosity. “What’s your name? Sorry, my memory’s got dreadful holes in it just lately.”

“Frederick, sir. Fred for short.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Seventeen and a _valet de chambre_ already. Well, well.”

“Everyone else were gone, sir. They had to bump me up here, when they said you was coming home. Was you really a prisoner of war, sir?”

Jamie pressed his lips together. “Yes, I was.”

“Did you get wounded, sir? Is that why they sent you home?” 

The boy’s face was eager, and Jamie had to remind himself not to snap in impatience or irritation. “No. I gather they thought I needed a rest.”

“How did you escape, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I didn’t,” Jamie replied shortly. “A friend rescued me.”

“Blimey,” the boy breathed. “Killed some bloody Huns to do it, I’ll bet.”

Jamie sighed. “One, yes.”

“Give me your other hand, sir. I can’t wait to join the army, myself. I’m eighteen on the second of January, and I’ll be at the War Office day after my birthday. Can’t _wait_.”

Jamie scrutinised the young man. Had he been so fervent, so avid at that age? He supposed he had. And was there any sense at all in telling the young man about what war really was – not an adventure, not a lark, but blood and suffering and humiliation and death? And even if he did, would the boy listen? Likely not – Jamie wouldn’t have listened either, at seventeen.

“I daresay you’ll make a fine soldier.” The boy grinned and squared his shoulders, and Jamie sighed again. “Enjoy life a bit before you head over there, Fred. Make the most of your Christmas holidays.”

“I will, sir. Can I help you with that coat?”

“No, I can manage from here.”

“But Mr. Sherston said –“

“You tell him I said I wanted to be alone,” Jamie said. “Go on. You can sort things out in the morning if Mr. Sherston doesn’t have you otherwise occupied.”

“Yes, sir.” Fred nodded, pivoted on his heel, and left quietly.

Jamie felt weighed down by the excellent dinner, by the two glasses of wine he’d drunk. He stood up and moved to the cheval mirror. The image reflected in the glass was a young man, tall and trim, perfectly groomed, in the _dernier cri_ of modern evening dress. 

Somehow, it was a very dissatisfying picture.

 

*

 

“Just wheel me in there, old chap – mind you don’t catch the carpet. Blasted fringes trip me up every time.”

Jamie pushed Jim’s wheelchair into the little library and settled him beside a table. “Here?”

“That’ll do.” Jim stretched and yawned, then noticed his sister lingering in the doorway. “Well?”

Pansy Nicholls was very pretty, with the same curly golden hair and blue eyes as her brother, and nearly as tall. She had chattered all through dinner, when she hadn’t been staring at Jamie with an intensity that made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Did you need anything?” 

“Yes – for you to go away and let us have a chat. A _quiet_ chat.”

“I wasn’t _talking_ to you,” Pansy retorted pertly, and beamed at Jamie.

Jamie blinked. “Why – no, I think I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” 

“Are you certain? I could get you some more ices, or –“

“Out!” Jim ordered, pointing a finger. “And close the door behind you.”

A scowl clouded Pansy’s brow. “Oh, very well. Honestly.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled at Jamie, then banged the door shut.

Jim pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Good God. She gets sillier every day.” He shook his head and beamed at Jamie. “There’s whiskey in that cabinet over there, Jamie. Would you be a good fellow and pour us some?”

“Certainly.” Jamie busied himself with the decanter and glasses, and handed a drink to Jim, holding his own glass up. “To your very good health.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jim replied, touched his glass to Jamie’s, and drank. “Lovely on a cold night like this. Difficult to believe it’s November already. Christmas is right around the corner.” He smiled at Jamie. Despite his infirmity, he looked healthy and rested, and dashing in a smart tweed suit. “How’s the Camden Arms? Never stayed there myself, but I hear it’s nice.”

“Quite comfortable, thanks.”

“You know, you could have stayed here. We’d have been happy to put you up. Mother’s been stuffing me like a goose from the moment I arrived home – or trying to, at least. Her attention would have been diverted a bit.”

“I shouldn’t like to be a burden to you,” Jamie replied. “Did you grow up here?”

“Oh, yes. Born and bred.”

“It’s quite cozy, isn’t it? Very charming.”

Jim laughed softly. “If that’s a terribly polite way of saying small, then yes, I suppose it is. But I’ve always had jolly times here. Until lately, that is. I seem to spend most of my time in my room, reading. I’ve always loved reading, Jamie, but it’s _all_ I seem to do now. I try to get out for some fresh air now and then, but the weather’s been so rotten lately, and oddly enough, nobody seems to fancy decking themselves in oilskins and pushing me around in the rain.” He sipped at his drink and regarded Jamie closely. “Why didn’t you come to see me before this? I’ve missed you, old man, and you _did_ promise to visit, after all.”

Jamie stared at the golden liquid in his glass and swirled it around, trying to equivocate. He’d anticipated the question on the drive to Kent – Jim, honest and forthright, would naturally want to know why he hadn’t visited his friend since he’d been injured. He’d come up with a list of excuses, none of them plausible-sounding, and had rejected all of them. Jim deserved to know the truth. If only the truth weren’t so confusing. “I don’t know. It was dashed inexcusable of me, Jim. I’m sorry for it.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes – yes, I’m fine.” Was there a way to say _I’ve thought of you almost every waking moment_ without sounding like an utter fool? For weeks he’d indulged himself in fantasies, but now he saw that he would have to surrender them to this punishing attack of reality. Jim’s casual inquiry was that of a friend, no more – there was no shadow of desire in his eyes, no spark of anger over Jamie’s neglect that had in actuality been comprised of longing and hope – he’d yearned for Jim to summon him, and had stayed away himself – it was damned ridiculous, on the face of it. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot; his aim had been exceptionally true.

“Never mind. It was a prying question. I withdraw it.” Jim’s smile brightened a bit. “You’re here now, that’s the main thing. Shall we have some music?” He wheeled himself to a Victrola on a lace-covered table and picked up a record. “Mother adores John McCormack. She says it’s because he’s Irish but I suspect she finds him attractive.” Jim set the record on the turn-table, wound the phonograph, and placed the needle carefully on the record. A scratching noise followed by low, sobbing strings emerged from the horn, then the clear notes of a man’s tenor voice. Jim wheeled himself back over to Jamie and picked up his glass again. “So how have you been keeping yourself?”

“Well enough,” Jamie said. He cracked a wry grin. “Actually, I’m going mad with boredom, and my parents are driving me absolutely round the bend.”

“So are mine!” Jim exclaimed delightedly. “Good God, and here I was thinking I might ask for a trade. Good lord, I can’t draw breath without my mother popping in to ask if I need a cup of tea or a spoonful of cod liver oil or some Dr. Allinson’s Miracle-sodding-Restorative Tonic.” He chuckled. “Poor thing. She’s trying to help, but I’m being coddled like an egg, Jamie, and it’s infuriating. You too?”

“Quite. Except in _my_ mother’s case, she’s introducing me to roughly fifteen or twenty eligible young ladies every single day, and I’m having some difficulty telling them apart.”

Jim smiled down into his glass. “You could simply hack through the Gordian knot and marry Pansy. She’s quite taken with you.”

Jamie gave an uneasy laugh. “I’m sure there are scads of other chaps she’d much rather be with.”

“Oh, I don’t know. At any rate, if you two did make a go of things, it would keep you around here a bit more.” The brilliance of Jim’s smile clouded a bit. 

Jamie’s stomach knotted itself into a tight fist around Mrs. Nicholls’ roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He’d made too free with his own thoughts the past few weeks; he recognised, with a pain that approached terror, how desperately, helplessly smitten he was, and how futile was his yearning. Time to tell Jim his news. “I shall have to consider it most carefully, then. Look here, Jim –“

“I have to go back into the hospital in a week,” Jim said abruptly, finishing his drink. He pulled his mouth into a grimace and held out his glass. “Another, would you, old man?”

Jamie couldn’t move. “I…back in? But why? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I say, Jamie, don’t look so down in the mouth. It’s not all that serious.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, not really. You see, it’s this rotten leg – the bone’s not knitting together as quickly as it should, so I’m getting a silver plate put into it. Or onto it, I don’t know. In any event, it’s meant to speed up healing. It’s quite common, apparently. I shan’t be in the hospital more than a week or so. You’re awfully pale, Jamie. Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Just concerned about you, old man.” Jamie mustered a quick smile and got to his feet before a paralysis of dread could settle fully into his bones. He took his time pouring the whiskey, doubling both their portions.

“Well, that’s jolly good of you, but honestly, it’s going to be perfectly fine. I…it would be nice, though, if you visited me in hospital. I don’t mean to be pushing, but…well, if you find yourself with time hanging heavy, do feel free to pop in. I’ll be the one betting my shin on the ponies.” 

Mechanically, Jamie replaced the stopper in the decanter. He stared down at the glasses in his hand without really seeing them, and tightened his fingers because he felt a strange, draining weakness inside him, insinuating itself through his bloodstream, through every nerve and fiber, and if he succumbed to it, the glasses would fall from his hands and shatter. _Mustn’t let them fall,_ he thought disjointedly.

“Jamie?”

“I can’t come to see you in hospital, Jim.” Jamie heard his own words forced out, heavy and languid, weary.

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Well, if you’re busy I certainly understand. No matter.” The lightness and natural music in Jim’s voice dwindled with each word he spoke; Jamie had disappointed him.

“I’m –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut. “I’m going back to France, Jim. I’ve made up my mind.”

In the moment that followed, Jamie heard the steady tick of the clock on the black marble mantel, the crackling of the wood fire, the scratching of the record as a new song began, the light steps of either Pansy or her mother above them, and Jim’s ragged breathing. Unable to meet Jim’s eyes, he set the glasses carefully on the cabinet.

“For God’s sake,” Jim said in a trembling voice, “ _why_?”

“I’ve got to.”

“No, you –“ Jim slapped a hand down on the arm of his chair. “Damn it all to hell.” Jim, who used profanity so rarely that his words now startled Jamie, spoke so quietly, as if his surfeit of control might slip at any moment.

Jamie turned to look at Jim and saw his hands rising upward, gently, to cover his face. He felt none of yesterday’s certainty, when he’d driven to the War Office and re-enlisted. There had been no recrimination, no chastisement, only a warm welcome from a rough-hewn Yorkshire colonel whose regiment needed more experienced men. Infantry this time, not cavalry. The chance for atonement. Raw acid churned in his stomach – fear, apprehension, a sudden crushing regret. “Jim, please. You of all people should understand –“

“You’ve nothing to prove. Nothing.” Jim took his hands away from his face. His eyes were exceptionally bright. “You’re going back into that madness – why? Good God, you’re putting yourself in danger needlessly for England and empire –“

“Please, Jim – don’t talk like that. I couldn’t bear it if you got cynical on me. Christ, you read the papers. You’ve seen it happening – more men are needed, and I’m fit and ready. I can’t sit at home and do nothing whilst others fight on my behalf.”

Jim shook his head slowly. “You’ve already done it – signed up, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

Jim laughed, a soft, bitter chuckle. “I thought as much. It’s settled, then. When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jim turned, awkwardly wheeling the chair away from Jamie.

Jamie stood rooted to the spot, but found his voice. “Jim, please don’t be angry with me. I must go. I…I know it’s too much to ask for your blessing, but I shall ask all the same. Please…please try to understand.” He looked at Jim’s fair shining curls that no comb or pomade could contain, and longed to touch them, to see if they were as soft as they looked. He longed to place his lips on the nape of Jim’s neck, to caress the delicate curve of his ear. The desire was so strong that he moved forward a few steps, and then boldly stepped around Jim’s chair to face him. He sank to his knees and gazed up into Jim’s eyes, startled to see wetness on his cheeks. 

The sight tore into Jamie’s heart. Tears dammed up until his face, his throat, his chest ached with them. Never demonstrative even with his closest friends or relatives, he found his hands reaching for Jim’s and clasping them tightly. “Don’t send me away like this, Jim.”

Jim smiled crookedly. “I’m being confoundedly selfish. Jamie, you have my blessing – good Lord, please don’t think otherwise. It’s only that I’m frightened for you. I wasn’t frightened for myself until…well, and now to think…I lost you once, don’t you see? Couldn’t quite bear it if I lost you again.”

“You won’t lose me.”

“Oh? Is that a promise?” Jim laughed a little.

“It is,” Jamie said. “A solemn oath.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Jim looked down at their clasped hands, then back into Jamie’s eyes. All at once he wrenched his hands away, placed them on either side of Jamie’s head, and kissed him.

Shocked, Jamie held still, and then closed his eyes and yielded. His hands closed on Jim’s’ tweed-clad knees, and he tasted whiskey and salt and felt the firm pressure of Jim’s lips against his, and the faint scratch of a hastily shaven chin as they drew closer together. He heard McCormack’s voice, clear and sweet.

_Roses are shining in Picardy  
In the hush of the silver dew  
Roses are flowering in Picardy  
But there's never a rose like you  
And the roses will die with the summer time  
And our roads may be far apart  
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy  
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart._

Jamie felt the soft, insistent pressure of Jim’s tongue tracing gently between his lips, and opened his mouth. A soft groan arose from somewhere – himself, or Jim, he’d no idea, but the sensation of wet warmth was stirring his prick to life, and he lifted his hands to tangle his fingers in Jim’s bright curls. Heat suffused him, and pleasure, and joy, and then he remembered he was leaving. Stricken, he pulled away. 

Jim’s eyes were shining in the firelight, his face was flushed, and his lips parted slightly. “Jamie,” he whispered.

Jamie shook his head. His prick ached, and his mouth trembled with sensation and memory, and his heart twisted inside his chest. “Jim…I must go.”

“Oh, God.” Jim’s face turned a deeper scarlet. “Jamie, I –“

“Will you write to me? Say you’ll write.”

“Every week. Every day, if you want.”

Jamie nodded, quite unable to speak. Gently, he touched his fingertips to his lips, then laid his hand on Jim’s cheek. He rose to his feet. “Promise me,” he said hoarsely, unsure precisely what it was he was asking.

“I promise.” Jim smiled and cupped his hand round Jamie’s.

 _Oh, God. Oh, dear God almighty._ Jamie leant down and kissed Jim’s mouth once more, lightly, fighting a hundred different urges. “For luck.”

“You won’t need it.”

“Write me.”

“I will. I promise.”

 

*


	5. You climbed up too and prophesied

*

 

_Well, then I want to ask you  
Whether it really happened.  
Eating, laughing,  
Sitting up late, writing each other's verses,  
I might invent all that, but one thing happened  
That seems too circumstantial for romance._

\---Robert Graves, _A Letter from Wales_

 

*

 

Dearest Jamie,

How thoughtless of me! I saw the thin, dispirited little envelope lying atop the post this morning and confess my heart sank just a bit (I know greed is a sin, and yet, and yet!) but when I opened it and read your note I felt paroxysms of guilt. Naturally writing-paper must be hard to come by there (what an old provincial I am! What, no Smythson’s in Mametz Wood? Shocking!) so I’m sending you a packet straight away, along with pencils and some other things you might find useful or cheerful. Haven’t your parents sent you any paper? If not, I’ll be happy to oblige for however long you will need it. I can’t have you sending me letters written on the sides of meat-tins and haversacks, the PO would never deliver them. Therefore, I beg you to consider me your official stationer.

You asked about my leg. I’m pleased to tell you it is improving steadily. In fact to-day Father took me to hospital and the doctors appeared to be delighted with my progress. I have advanced to crutches – if you could see me hopping about, you’d have a jolly good laugh, I think, but I believe I’m getting on well and quite nimble at that. I’ve only smashed two vases thus far. Because of these trifling events Mother, I’m sorry to say, is less impressed. I gather they were nice vases. All joking aside, it feels much stronger and I’m nearly my old self again. 

And in light of this optimistic development, I’ve more news. You’ve inspired me, my dear chum – I’ve gone and got a job! Yes, James Riordan Augustine Nicholls is among the ranks of the employed, and what’s more, it’s with the War Office. I shall be assisting in record-keeping and the distribution of pay-books. The only fly in the ointment is that of course the work is in London and it’s a long and eventually costly train ride from Kent every day – and so I shall have to take a flat in the city. As soon as I find one, I’ll begin working. Happily, Father has agreed (albeit grudgingly) to supplement my very meagre income so I shan’t be living in complete squalor. He would still prefer that I work at the manufactory, but who cares about bathtubs, for heaven’s sake – there’s a war on. Sometimes I think he deliberately blinds himself to the truth, but perhaps we all do that from time to time….

….I’ve already met some fellows in the War Office who know you, Jamie, and they speak awfully well of you. Richard Hedrick who said he was with you at Sandhurst asked that I pass on his very best wishes (he took a bullet in the shoulder) and David Colbert, who didn’t say he’d been at Sandhurst but did say you were a topping chap (where do you know him from? I didn’t like to ask) also requested that I give you a halloo and said you were a grand brave fellow for heading back to the field of battle. And so you are – you should be proud. I know I am – proud of knowing you, of being your friend, of so very many things. I realise that time for leisure is precious there, and that even the smallest note from you is cause for rejoicing (this is a dreadfully un-subtle way of urging you to write, if you hadn’t happened to notice).

It’s getting on for half past eleven and I want this to go into the post tomorrow morning, so I shall close here. I hope to hear from you soon. You are never far from my thoughts.

With fondest wishes from your devoted friend  
Jim

 

*

 

Spring had come, to everyone’s displeasure. As miserable as winter at the front had been – advancing and entrenching had been a nightmare, ferocious and bloody battles ended with corpses stacked like firewood on the frozen ground, and several of Jamie’s men had died of frostbite and exposure – spring seemed worse. Stinking and foul, the mud coated them all; despite the duckboards they’d set up as trench flooring, they wound up wading through it, sinking to knee and thigh. The constant wet meant ill temper and sickness and crippling maladies like trench-foot. The warmer weather meant rats and lice and flies, the smell of urine and faeces and vomit and the sickening, stealthily pervasive stench of rotting bodies. Sometimes Jamie mused that if the opposing forces simply stayed put and did nothing for a few weeks, the war would end much more quickly and at very little military expense.

He had just completed stand-to, the twice-daily dawn and dusk armed drill, and his ears still rang with the after-echo of small arms fire. He permitted the soldiers to fire off a round or two at every stand-to – it relieved a bit of tension and efficiently cut down any enemy creeping toward them. The Germans performed stand-to at the same time, and Jamie decided he’d make dusk stand-to ten or twenty minutes later on varying days. Too much routine made the enemy complacent. Morning would have to remain the same, though – any earlier than an hour before dusk and he’d have a riot on his hands.

Bracing himself against the breastworks of sandbags and wood so as not to slip on the muddy duckboards, Jamie went back to his scraped-out hole – no grander than any of his men’s except for the luxury of a spirit lamp and a wooden desk and chair liberated from a burnt-out schoolroom – and took Jim’s letter from his pocket, re-reading it and savouring every word. Then, as eagerly as a child, he unwrapped the paper parcel and examined the things Jim had thoughtfully sent along: boxes of matches, packets of Woodbines, some chocolate bars, the promised paper and pencils, soap wrapped in flowered paper and sealed with wax. Jamie unwrapped one of the cakes of soap, holding it to his nose and inhaling. 

A sweet jab of lilac and lilies emanated from the cream-coloured cake, bringing an ache to his heart and involuntary tears to his eyes. When he’d actually be able to bathe with the deuced thing he had no idea; he was duty officer for the next three weeks, and any more than a quick wash of hands and face was impossible. From the neck down, he was as filthy and smelly as the lowest private. Still, it was a little piece of home, and a cheering reminder of Jim. He smiled at the gifts scattered on his cot. Jim had touched them, had gathered and perhaps wrapped them himself. It looked that way – the package had been assembled and tied somewhat awkwardly, telling of a young man’s haste and impatience with such a domestic, feminine task. Somehow, it was all the more precious for its clumsiness.

Too restless to attempt sleep, he rose, tucked the chocolate bars into his trench-coat pocket, then picked up his lamp and walked back out to the breastworks, nearly bumping into his orderly, Waterson, who was carrying a pot of something steaming-hot and surprisingly, enticingly aromatic in one hand, his own spirit lamp in another. “Supper?” he inquired. “Christ, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Got to eat, sir,” Waterson said. “Can’t have you wasting away. HQ will be down my neck in no time.”

“I’ll be along presently,” Jamie said. “Might as well do arms inspection now. Hang on to it for a bit, will you? Don’t let the rats get it.”

“Lieutenant Trammell can –“

“Trammell’s dead,” Jamie interrupted. “Took a stray this afternoon.” He’d popped up above the fire-step, and a bullet had hit him in the eye. The only mercy had been immediate death. “There’s a letter for his parents on my cot. See that it gets out in the morning.”

Waterson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Carry on.” Jamie shouldered past Waterson and made his way down to the main fire trench, bracing himself against the sandbags in the darkness. “Arms inspection, gentlemen!”

His men snapped to with gratifying speed. They were all weary, sick, cold, wet, hungry, and yet they fought like tigers, every man-jack of them, as bravely as his cavalry regiment had done. He was proud of them, and yet discipline was tight; no point in letting things slip over pride. Carelessness was as great a threat as the Germans across the sea of French mud.

Jamie nodded as he passed each man. “Good. Good. Very good, Pilcher. Look sharp, Borden. Good. Hampton – good Christ, man, that carbine’s a disgrace. Clean it at once.” He scowled at the private. “And clean yourself up a bit too. God knows we’re all dirty, but we needn’t descend to the level of savages – not yet. Straighten that tunic up and fix your puttees. Come on, snap to it – and that goes for all of you.” His voice carried easily in the stillness. “When the jerries see you attacking with uniforms crisp and rifles gleaming, gentlemen, you will strike fear into their hearts. Fear will make them hesitate, and their hesitation will be their undoing.” He spoke with such crisp authority that he almost believed it himself. Up and down the line, the men tidied themselves up as much as they could, and he was heartened. “Excellent. Well done, gentlemen. Thank you.” He made his way down the line and was about to turn back when he saw a huddled figure near the latrine. Jamie held up his lamp. “What’s the matter, man? Are you ill?”

The figure straightened, and Jamie recognised Willie Doyle, a young man almost as tall as Jamie, but he couldn’t have been more than nineteen and thus still had a puppyish clumsiness, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his arms and legs. Willie’s face was red, and there were streaks on his face, the clean tracks of tears. Willie stiffened to attention and saluted. “Sir.”

Jamie winced as a breeze blew the stench of the latrine toward them. “What the devil are you doing lurking in the dark?”

“Nowt, sir. Felt a bit sick, is all.”

“Right. Well, get back to the line. Where’s your weapon?”

“Got it right here, sir.” The young private’s voice trembled.

“Sick, eh?” Jamie raised the lamp, illumining the young man’s face, then gentled his voice a bit. A niggling suspicion teased at him. “Homesick, lad?”

“A bit, sir.”

“How old are you, Doyle?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “Funny – why don’t I believe you?”

“I am, sir!” Doyle insisted, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll head back, sir.”

“You can head back when you tell me the truth, Private.”

Doyle’s shoulders sagged. “Sixteen, sir.”

Jamie sighed. “It was your height that got you in, I expect. You do realise it’s a crime to falsify papers?”

“I know that, sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to fight.”

 _And regret it now, like as not._ Jamie shook his head. “Shall I send you home? I should, you know – technically, you’re here under false pretences.”

“Christ, no, sir. I’d cop it for sure. My mam was like to kill me when I did the bolt – my dad wrote that she’s only just forgiven me, sir. Don’t send me back, sir.”

“Listen here, Doyle. We all get homesick from time to time. There’s no shame in it. But mind you keep your storms and tears to yourself, the way you did just now. I can’t have lachrymose moods infecting my company, is that clear?”

Doyle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep that chin up. Make your parents proud.”

“Sir.” Doyle’s shoulders went up again.

“Good man.” Jamie hesitated; ought he to say something more reassuring? He hadn’t Jim’s easy-going demeanour with people, and in the service discipline and toughness was the order of the day. But he felt as if he should say something more to this boy, who was just a boy after all, whose mother was doubtless terrified for her son and who by all rights should have been able to clasp him close for another few years. “Back to your post.”

“Yes, sir.” Doyle shouldered his rifle and began the slippery walk back to the line.

“Doyle!”

The boy executed a gawky little turn on his heel and righted himself. “Sir?”

“When next you write your parents, you tell them I said you’re an asset to this company and we’re damned lucky to have you.”

Doyle’s face broke into a grin. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Slowly, Jamie walked back to his hole, nodding absently at the salutes and cap-tugging of his men. They were a cracking good company, Yorkshiremen mostly, blunt and a bit rough-hewn, but respectful and brave and good-humoured. And, thank God, they knew nothing of his disgrace in Belgium. He wondered if their respect would dwindle if they did know.

Jamie nodded thanks to Waterson and took the now-cooled pot from him. “What is it?”

“Beef stew, sir. Not bad at all.”

“Right. Thanks. Oh – here. A friend sent a few of these.” Jamie proffered one of the chocolate bars.

“Dear God, I’ve been dreaming about one of these. Thank you, sir. Mattingly’s just brought your tea, sir – it’s there on the table, nice and hot. Get some sleep, sir.”

“Thanks, Waterson. Dismissed.” Jamie placed the lamp on the desk and slumped into his chair. Slowly, he ate the watery stew, over-salted to compensate for its consistency, and took out Jim’s letter once more. He read and re-read it, nodding over his tea, and finally fell asleep at the desk, too tired to crawl into his cot, but soothed and contented nonetheless.

 

*

 

Dear Jamie,

I suppose you think I’m a perfect dunderhead, asking you to send me some token from France, but you’re very good not to say so. Thanks ever so much for the pebble – where ever did you find such a pretty one? It looks as though there are flowers pressed into the stone. I’ll confess it; I never did get any ‘souvenirs’ from Europe. I suppose I should have asked to keep the bullet they dug out of my leg, but I didn’t think of it at the time – I just wanted it out! Pity. Also, it’s sentimental of me, but I rather like having a keepsake, something that reminds me of you and that I can tuck into my pocket and carry about. Yes, I said it was sentimental, you needn’t snigger at me. Don’t pretend you’re not.

Old chap, it was sobering, to say the least, to read of the latest news. I know you’re not permitted to say exactly where you are, or what’s happening, but I read all the papers avidly and I can’t help but worry. I know you say you’re in good health and certainly your letters are full of cheer, but do tell me if anything goes amiss, won’t you? I hope you realise you may say anything to me, as I feel I might to you. 

You asked me for all sorts of news and I have such a lot of it! First, you will notice the return address on the envelope is markedly different – yes, I’m in London at last. That silver plate did absolute wonders for healing and I’m using a cane to get about. It looks quite dashing and I tend to get looks of admiration rather than pity now, which comes as something of a relief. It’s not a pleasant thing, being the object of pity. I suppose it makes people uncomfortable to see others in obvious pain – or is it guilt at being well and whole while others are not? In any event, I suspect it’s a sight one must get used to soon, for more wounded arrive every day. 

But back to my news. I’m settled into my flat. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not the smartest section of London, but it’s only a short tram ride to the office, and it’s cosy and quite suitable for my needs. Pansy is in a perfect wax, though – I think she had some notion of using my flat as her headquarters for some sort of dizzy social life, and I told her absolutely not. She’s perfectly welcome to spend a night now and again, if she doesn’t object too strenuously to bachelor living (I do have a twice-weekly housekeeper, thank heavens) but she’s certainly not going to plant herself here permanently – she can jolly well get her own flat, or share one with another girl. It would probably be good for her. I wonder if I shouldn’t take up permanent residence here – London is the heart of things, and even though Father will likely yank away my supplement and demand my return to Kent the moment the war ends – yes, I might stay after all. I’ll get another job – I mean to make myself useful. And it’s not especially close to your parents’ home (which you said was in Mayfair, I believe? Remind me) but it’s the same city, at least, which would be awfully pleasant and convenient when you return to Blighty.

I can’t say much about the work as you probably know, but I can tell you I’m involved in record-keeping, and it’s making the days fly by at top speed. Some of the other chaps at the office are wounded, like myself, and we all feel better being able to pull our weight and continue to do our bit. Jamie, I still think of that last night and I’m sorry for my cynicism. It was ungracious of me, and while I am beginning to truly wonder about the necessity of this war (more on that another time, I think) at the same time I’m proud of you and of every soldier and sailor who’s risking his life for king and country.

It does sound like a fascinating mix of fellows in Company ‘A’ – are you keeping them all in line? No need to ask, I know you are. They sound like topping lads. Do keep sending me anecdotes, they are immensely heartening and put a smile on my face. I like knowing you’re in solid company. You spoke of trench-digging parties at night, but something tells me there’s a decided lack of festivity about them…tell me more if you can. I hope conditions are a little more tolerable now that the rains have stopped – although now you must contend with the heat of summer. Still, it’s August, and autumn is round the corner. Which reminds me – it’s been nearly ten months since I’ve seen you. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a leave?

You’ll likely think it foolish, but I asked my mother to add your name to her list of intentions as she says the Rosary nightly. Yes, it’s Papist mysticism, but surely it can’t do any harm, and Mother is so dear and sweet that I can’t help but think her honest devotion wings its way speedily to God’s ear, and perhaps He will listen, and protect you. She’s a far better intermediary than I – I don’t think He would listen to me quite as readily.

My luncheon hour is about finished and so I shall have to end here, but I intend to add a postscript tonight as today’s post has been collected already.

Jim

p.s. At home now and have just finished the evening papers. Another long casualty list. My heart is in my throat every time I see one, and afterward I’m grateful and quite sick with relief. Jamie, when will this all end? How many more men must die before nations can come to some accord?

I’m sorry. I promised I should be cheerful in my letters to you. Something to end on a high note – last week-end I taught Pansy to drive (despite her surfeit of beaux, she’s still quite in love with you – those tins of chicken paste and sardines, she insists I inform you, were presents from her and not from me, so do please send her a note and get her off my back). The good news is that we’re both still alive. I’m being unjust. She’s actually most competent behind the wheel, but she is a terror. I’ve never seen anyone drive so fast, or shriek quite so gleefully at the sensation of blinding speed. I believe I shall enter her in a race and bet my earthly fortune on the girl. I suspect this is only the beginning of trouble, though – she’s taken to hemming up her skirts and talking of suffrage. My parents are scandalised. I should probably not be encouraging her, but as I consider myself an enlightened fellow, I am. Why shouldn’t she vote, after all? I call her silly, and so she can be, but the truth is that she’s brighter than many men I know and beginning to take an interest in the world around her, which can only be to the good – I hope! Now, having spoken so boldly, I shan’t ask her to drive me anywhere. She frightens me half to death.

Do write as soon as you can, and know that as ever my thoughts and prayers go with you.

Your most devoted (if ever so slightly dented from my last motor-car ride) friend,

Jim

 

*

 

Jamie stared down at the grain of the wooden table and traced the tip of his finger round a whorled pattern in the scrubbed surface. Nature moved in extraordinary fashion, in spirals and curves of wood, in the sinuous stripes of the marmalade cat snoozing on the chair nearby, in the bright scattering of jewelled stars outside. And mankind trampled it all in straight, brutal lines.

Taking a packet of Woodbines from his pocket (Jim kept him well-supplied; he was far more considerate than Jamie’s parents, who hadn’t sent more than a handful of letters – full of absent kindliness, to be sure, but far less effusive than Jim’s cheery missives), he lit one and inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke through his nose. This meeting made him uneasy; there were sentries outside, and the perimeter had been carefully checked, but he still felt a bit frightened at its haste, its air of secrecy. He was no spy, and had no desire to be one. And his contact, whoever it was, was late.

He flicked cigarette ash into his cupped hand and gazed around the room. Lit by a few aromatic beeswax candles, it was a cheery kitchen, spotlessly clean if not luxurious. The lady of the house had fed him a marvellous dinner of crisply roasted chicken with carrots and parsnips and then had retired an hour ago, bidding him good-night in liquid syllables that Waterson translated for him. He’d thanked her in his atrocious French and now wondered if the person he was supposed to meet had been waylaid somehow.

“Sir.” Waterson’s voice came softly from the door. “He’s here.”

Jamie rose to his feet and was taken aback to see Colonel Alexander McMuir, the man who’d recruited him in London. He saluted smartly. “Sir – good God, we’d thought you’d –“

“Been killed, I know.” Colonel McMuir, a lean, craggy man with glinting green eyes, gestured toward the table and dropped a large haversack on it. “Sit, Stewart. Need a word with you.”

“I’m delighted to see you’re well.” Jamie took his seat and peered at the man across from him. He was out of uniform, wearing canvas trousers, rough work boots and a sort of sailor’s pea-jacket. His dark-blond hair had grown longer than military standard, and he was unshaven, several days’ stubble covering his chin and cheeks.

“Aye, I’m well enough. Sorry for the deception, but it were necessary.” McMuir gave him a narrow smile with very little mirth in it. “Someone at the War Office got wind that I spoke fair German, and the rest is history, none of which I’m at liberty to discuss. Christ, is that a Woodbine? You wouldn’t have another, would you?”

Jamie pushed the packet across the table. “Keep it.”

“Ta for that.” McMuir stood and began to open cupboards. “I reckon Simone’s got something for the ash in here.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow but said nothing. _Simone?_ He waited patiently as McMuir returned to the table, sat, and placed a chipped pottery bowl between them. “There we go.” He lit his cigarette and drew deeply; the end glowed red in the semidarkness. “I reckon you’re wondering why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Got a present for you.” McMuir reached into the haversack and withdrew an object, spreading it out on the table with long, surprisingly graceful hands. It was a sort of canvas hood, with a rectangular glass eye-piece.

Jamie regarded the hood dubiously. “What the devil’s that?”

“I’ve got a hundred and fifty of these ugly bastards for your company, Stewart, as well as some bloody grim news. The Jerries have developed a poison gas for widespread use in the trenches, and word is they’re ready to use it.”

Jamie felt his hostess’ splendid dinner give an almighty lurch in his belly. “Good Christ.”

“Aye.” McMuir nodded. “They’re calling it mustard gas, because it’s a bit yellowish and it even smells that way, but what it does, Stewart – frigging horrible. Blisters on the skin filled with pus, and the shite penetrates clothes, too. There’s vomiting and blindness and Christ knows what else because I didn’t stick round to find out, but I got enough information to scare the piss out of me.” He drew on his cigarette, briefly illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes. “They send ‘em over in canisters, and you’ve got to get the masks on before you see the gas, because the wind will pick it up in the blink of an eye.”

“And when –“ Jamie’s voice hitched a bit. “When do they intend to begin using it?”

“Soon. So you need to start drilling immediately.”

“And if it penetrates clothing, what’s the use of this?” Feeling ill, Jamie stabbed at the ominous-looking hood with a finger. Fear began to insinuate itself inside him. _Poison._

“It’s treated canvas, woven tight, and there’s a compound inside that will protect you from the gas. As for the rest of the skin – even if it’s bloody hot, the men have to be in full kit from now on if they want to protect themselves. Layers will help. We’re not abandoning you to slaughter, Major.”

“How reassuring,” Jamie said softly, bitterly. Poison. How right Jim had been: it wasn’t their war any longer. Perhaps it never had been.

McMuir rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. “Aye. It’s rotten, every bit of it, but we’ve got to see it through now. I’m for bed – haven’t slept for two days. Simone said that you and your lads can bunk wherever you find room, but you’ve got to clear out before dawn.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jamie. “Orders. Drill instructions. The lot. I don’t expect I’ll see you again, so I’ll say good-bye here.” He extended his hand.

Jamie shook it firmly, but frowned. “You don’t –“

“Have you people at home, Stewart?”

“Yes.” Jamie thought briefly of his parents and Philip, but the image of Jim’s face blazed through like a beacon. “Yes, I do.”

“I reckon they’re expecting you to come home in one piece. See that you do.” He nodded shortly, then made his way to the rickety wooden staircase and climbed up, disappearing into the darkness.

Jamie heard the heavy tread of McMuir’s boots, then the unmistakable sound of same dropping one by one to the floor. There was a soft voice, then an equally soft answer, and the creak of wood. Jamie rose, gathered up the hateful hood, extinguished the candles, and left the house quietly.

Waterson stood outside with the two sentries. Even in the starlight they all looked exhausted. “Where’s the parcel?” Jamie asked.

Waterson pointed to a loaded cart. “There, sir.”

“Right. Let’s get back. No time to lose.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jamie tucked the hood inside the cart and walked alongside it, guiding it as the sentries pulled. His hand went to his pocket, where Jim’s latest letter reposed. He’d meant to read it once more before bed, but it would have to wait. Still, he remembered much of it.

_I need those prayers, Jim. God help us all._

 

*

 

Fog lay over the trenches, a thick, drifting blanket of mist, pale-grey in the dawn. The men of Company A had just finished stand-to and were enjoying breakfast, inasmuch as one could enjoy a hasty breakfast in a muddy trench. Autumn had brought rain again, and cold weather, and mud. Despite it, the mood was merry. The post had come yesterday, and several lucky men had packages from home, bulging with tea and cakes and whatever other edibles worried families could send their fighting boys. Those who hadn’t families to send supplies looked on, a bit shamefaced and sad, but Jamie’s men were a generous lot and soon everyone had something, chocolate, shortbread, shared tins of sardines. They ate and drank in the quiet and stillness until the sound of gunfire filled the air.

“ _Posts!_ ” Jamie roared, and leapt to his feet. His men moved with gratifying speed, making room for him as he leapt toward the fire-step with weapon drawn.

Strangely, the firing had ceased. Jamie frowned, and cautiously raised his head, pressing his field-glasses to his eyes, trying to see through the drifting fog.

There was nothing. No advancing troops, no flash of fire, no staccato drumbeat of machine-guns. Only drifting fog and silence.

And then Jamie saw it – a yellowish-brown cloud, thick and hazy, carried toward them on the wind.

“ _MASKS ON! CLEAR OUT!_ ”

They’d drilled ferociously, and kept their masks close; off came the helmets, on went the masks, back on went the helmets. They looked like bizarre executioners, every last one of them. Gloves next, and those who weren’t in full kit hastened into it as the wind carried the poison closer.

Over the top they went, into hell.

 

*

 

Dearest Jamie,

I can’t tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. Lately I swear I’ve scarcely finished one before I get the queerest sensation in my chest, as if someone were squeezing my heart with a mailed fist, and I realise it’s anxiety and I’m already waiting for the next letter, hoping and praying until I receive it. I am trying not to be gloomy, but I feel as if I’m surrounded by death on all sides, Jamie, and can’t do a thing about it. If only there were some way to speak to you every day, just for a moment, to know you’re well.

Enough, enough dreariness. I apologise. I had a bit of a surprise yesterday – I met your mother! I gather our regimental photographs have some place of honour in the Stewart household, for she seemed to recognise me immediately. I can see where you get your aristocratic looks; she’s quite a beauty, I was utterly charmed by her. She insisted on taking me to tea at the Savoy, a new and rather luxurious experience for me, and we had the most jolly time. 

Now, old man, what on earth did you tell her? I fear you painted a very flattering picture of me. If her account is to be believed, I swooped into your prison like the Scarlet Pimpernel, sword flashing, hauled you over my shoulder, and swung out on a rope! I exaggerate, but only slightly; she treated me as the most heroic of rescuers, when you and I both know the truth is somewhat different, to wit: I was shot and you carried me. I did my best to correct her misperceptions, but I’m afraid she insists on seeing things her way. (Stubbornness must be a family trait!) She said that Christmas was a dreary affair without you and Philip, and she longed for the war to end. I heartily agreed with her.

It’s cold and rainy, typical for February, but I’m well enough. My leg twinges in the damp; the doctors say it won’t last forever, and I’m determined to be optimistic – ah! New post, hurrah! More later.

 

The sweetest word in the English language – LEAVE. 

You’re coming home. However brief – oh, Jamie!

Yours, 

Jim


	6. I cannot tell what time your life became mine

*

 

_In many acts and quiet observances  
you absorbed me:  
Until one day I stood eminent  
and I saw you gather'd round me  
uplooking  
and about you a radiance that seemed to beat  
with variant glow and to give  
grace to our unity._

\---Herbert Read, _My Company_

 

*

 

Never in his life had Jamie desired more ardently to scramble off a train, and not only because he was anxious to see those dearest to him. He’d longed to spend the ride to London dreaming in quiet anticipation, watching the beauty of the passing countryside, but instead he had been trapped by Major Clement Wilkie, a garrulous young man who’d regaled Jamie with tales of his battalion adventures, tales of bloodthirsty Germans, tales of romantic escapades, and any snippet of thought that had apparently drifted across the threshold of his consciousness. Wilkie nattered through breakfast and luncheon, and teatime was approaching with no sign of slowing or fatigue on his part. Jamie sat in an agony of frozen politeness, casting yearning glances at other vacant seats in the first-class car but confining his misery to smiles and murmurs of ‘You don’t say’ and ‘My word’ and an occasional ‘Indeed? How interesting.’ He needn’t have bothered, though; Wilkie steam-rolled over his courteous replies and kept talking. Jamie had wondered what might happen if he simply got up and walked away. 

But there they were at last, on the outskirts of London, small, neat houses and dwindling patches of green giving way to factories and row houses, and even Wilkie was momentarily silenced by the sight of the city through the soot-spotted, curtained windows of the train. “Good Lord, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Yes,” Jamie said fervently, and took the opportunity to jump to his feet and shake Wilkie’s hand in farewell. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make my way to the doors. Jolly nice chatting with you.”

“Wasn’t it! When are you headed back? Perhaps we can join up here.”

“Oh, a few weeks.” Jamie waved his hand vaguely. “I’d have to check my papers, and they’re tucked a bit inconveniently in the bottom of my bag at the moment. You?”

“Christ, I know to the minute when I’ve got to go back. I’ve got two weeks, and not a moment more. Righto, then – maybe I’ll see you back on the train if I’m lucky. Cheerio.”

“Good-bye.” Jamie collected his cap, heaved his kit bag up over one shoulder, and went toward the doors, nodding politely at the people in the first-class car who beamed at him. It was pleasant, if a little odd, to be acknowledged so openly; at every stop, the train had disgorged soldiers both wounded and whole, to cheers and cries of joy. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped along platform railings, or bunched into rosettes, and children carried miniature Union Jacks. The citizens of Great Britain eagerly welcomed their fighting men back to England. It was a heartening sight.

“Eager to get home, I expect,” said a man with old-fashioned, carefully parted hair and a waxed mustache. 

“Indeed I am,” Jamie replied. He bowed slightly to the man’s companion, a pinched-looking, overly rouged lady in a lavender suit and sable tippet. “Madam.”

The woman bestowed a benevolent smile upon Jamie. “Back to your family?”

“Yes, madam.”

Her smile grew broader. “And your wife, or your sweetheart.” 

Jamie felt his own agreeable expression tighten and nodded his head. “Excuse me.” He made his way to the doors and stood stiffly, waiting for the train to slow to a stop. What in heaven’s name made people so pushing and curious? He hadn’t the least interest in anyone else’s romantic affairs. They were none of his business, he knew that much, and he liked to think he had a healthy respect for the private lives of other people.

 _Steady on_ , he chided himself wryly. _It was an innocent enough inquiry._ Idly, he wondered how her expression might have changed had he said, “Yes, my sweetheart Jim Nicholls.” Oh, the scandal that would arise from a remark like that! He smiled a little at the daring thought, and as the train churned to a slow, grinding halt, wheels shrieking against the track, he swung his cap onto his head and peered out the window. A few other officers who’d been travelling in the first-class car gathered behind him, and they all traded nods and shy smiles. Wilkie joined them, and blessedly, he was silent, looking a bit awed.

“Home,” one said.

Jamie couldn’t help smiling. “At long last.”

“Think I might stay,” a young captain with a dressing on one eye said off-handedly. “Not that France wasn’t jolly good fun, but I must say the food wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

Everyone laughed, and Jamie felt a glow in his chest. Never mind one nosy Parker of a woman – he was alive and he was almost home, and he would see Jim very soon.

A veritable mob had gathered on the platform, and their shouting was audible even through the closed doors. As the station attendants pulled them open, the noise became positively deafening, and the crowd surged toward the train, scarcely giving the passengers an opportunity to step off. Closer to the station, there was a swell of drums and brass, and a band swung into ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ prompting a tremendous cheer, singing, and much waving of tiny flags. Jamie stood on the top step, his gaze travelling rapidly over the crowd, seeking a particular pair of blue eyes, a bright head of hair.

A hand clapped Jamie’s shoulder. “Come on, friend. Let’s not spend our home leave on the train, eh?”

“Sorry!” Jamie hastened off the train, jumping from the step to the platform. He moved aside to let the other fellows disembark and continued to search the throng. He’d cabled Jim immediately after getting off the boat in Dover, but it wasn’t yet four o’clock and perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to leave his work.

“Jamie!”

Jamie swung round. “Mother!” He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms round her, embracing her tightly. She wore a grey fur coat, a velvet hat that looked like an upside-down officer’s peaked cap, and some luxurious, flowery perfume. He buried his nose in her neck, the way he used to as a small boy when she’d swoop into the nursery before the theatre or the opera to bestow a quick good-bye kiss.

“Oh, dear – too tight, darling. Mind my hat.” Margaret extricated herself and held Jamie away, beaming. “You look _marvelous_ , Jamie.” Touching him on the cheek with a grey-gloved hand, she looked him up and down approvingly. “Really so very dashing, dear. Now where’s your father?” She looked over her shoulder and sighed impatiently as an embracing couple nudged her to one side. “Goodness, we’ve simply got to get out of this bedlam. Oh, there he is!” She waved, and Charles, followed by their driver Murchison, made their way through the crowd.

“Jamie!” Charles grasped Jamie’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good God, what a nightmare. Let’s get out of here, shall we? Give Murchison your bag.”

“Welcome home, sir,” Murchison said warmly. He’d taught Jamie to ride, long before they’d had a motor-car. The position of driver was a promotion and the man performed his duties with precision and care, but Jamie always had the suspicion, if not the certainty, that Murchison would prefer to be tending to horses.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Murchison.” Jamie grasped the man’s hand. “Wonderful to be home.”

“Let me get that for you, sir.”

“No, I’ve got it.” Jamie swung his bag over his shoulder and followed his parents through the crush, holding onto his cap with one hand. He dragged his feet, still looking for Jim in the crowd, but in the sea of people and amongst so much khaki it was almost impossible to distinguish one face from another. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to come to the station after all.

Victoria Station was packed and hot with the press of so many bodies, but it was a rather delightful din, Jamie thought; there were so many faces that were streaked with happy tears. They deserved their noisy celebrations. Margaret clearly thought otherwise; her face, as she reached the doors, was a compound of relief and disgust. “Good heavens, what a racket.”

“Mother.” Jamie’s voice held the gentlest of reproofs. “It’s homecoming for these men. You mustn’t begrudge them a thing.” Somewhere, too, in the crowd, were families and friends bidding other men farewell as their leaves ended, as the new majority of young men stepped onto the trains in their crisply pressed khaki for the very first time. Everyone in the station deserved some sympathy, and if that was a sentimental thought, he didn’t care a fig.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Margaret peered at the crowd, and her expression softened a bit. “Yes, you’re right. Well, come along, let’s go home.”

“All right.” Jamie took one more look round, and a pang of disappointment jabbed its way inside him. He pushed his way out the door, and his heart skipped a beat, then quickened.

Jim stood on the kerb, craning his neck and examining the throng that pushed its way out of the doors. He was leaning on a silver-handled cane, he wore their old regimental khakis, and he was the handsomest man in London. As Jamie took a step forward, Jim saw him, and his eyes widened.

“Jim,” Jamie said softly. He let his kit bag slide to the pavement.

“Jamie…Jamie!” Jim removed his cap and rushed forward, limping, and threw his arms round Jamie. “Jamie, oh dear God. Jamie.”

He smelled of Penhaligon’s English Fern and wool and healthy young male, and Jamie drank in his scent greedily. He’d never held him close, and the reality of his strong body overwhelmed him. A lump rose in his throat; if he tried to speak, he’d weep. Surreptitiously, he allowed his lips to press against the faint pulse below Jim’s ear, then pulled back to gaze at him.

“Look at you,” Jim said. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he beamed, his brilliant smile lighting the grey, chilly afternoon. “You’re _wonderful._ ”

“You came.”

“I wouldn’t miss your homecoming for the world.” Jim took a step back, but still held onto Jamie’s arms. “Oh, Jamie –“

“Who’s this? It’s not Captain Nicholls?” Margaret laid a gloved hand on Jim’s arm. “Why, it is! How do you do? Charles, do look! It’s Captain Nicholls from Jamie’s old regiment. This is the young hero who saved our son’s life.”

“How do you do, Lady Duncannon?” Jim took her hand and bowed over it, then nodded to Charles. “Lord Duncannon. It’s lovely to see you again, ma’am.”

“Captain Nicholls,” Charles boomed. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, young man.”

“I consider Jamie my dearest friend. I’d do absolutely anything for him.” Jim smiled at Jamie, then at his parents. “I hope it’s not intrusive of me to welcome him home, but I was so eager to say hello. I’ll leave you to your reunion.” He replaced his cap.

“Come to dinner,” Jamie said impulsively. He didn’t want to let Jim go, to spend a minute of his leave without his company. 

“Oh, yes, do,” Margaret said, smiling at Jim.

“It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t.” Jim glanced at Jamie. “I’m afraid I’ve rather a lot of work back at the office. But I wonder…perhaps you’d do me the honour of being my guests at dinner tomorrow evening.”

Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but Charles waved a hand expansively. “Nonsense. Wouldn’t dream of interrupting a chaps’ dinner. Sure you’ve both a lot to discuss. But come by another night, eh? Perhaps next week.”

“I’d like that. Very kind of you.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Well? Shall I collect you tomorrow evening?”

Jamie gazed at Jim’s face, his fine, tall body, and his heart gave way to a sharp pain. How could he wait an entire day? He nodded and compressed his mouth to stop himself from protesting.

“Seven o’clock?”

“Yes,” Jamie said hoarsely, and turned to Charles. “Father…let me have one of your cards. Jim hasn’t got our address.”

“Oh, I know it. Lady Duncannon was kind enough to write it down the day we had tea.” Jim nodded at Margaret again. 

“Did she? That’s splendid.” As his parents bade Jim farewell and moved toward their automobile, Jamie picked up his kit bag. “Well…I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”

“Seven sharp.” Jim touched his hat and stretched out his hand. “I’m so very glad you’re home, old man.”

Jamie took Jim’s hand, and couldn’t bring himself to let it go. “So am I.”

“Tomorrow,” Jim said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Aching, Jamie released Jim’s hand with the greatest reluctance and watched him until he disappeared into the throng, turning back once to wave. Jamie raised a hand and then went to the idling motor car – a new one to Jamie, a handsome Rolls-Royce – where his parents were already waiting in the rear seat. Murchison took Jamie’s kit bag to stow it, and Jamie climbed into the front seat.

“Nice young chap. Brave, too,” Charles remarked.

“Very brave,” Jamie said.

“Nicholls. Don’t know the name.”

“Nor do I. Do we know his parents, Jamie?” Margaret had taken out a chased-silver compact and was examining the tilt of her hat. “Goodness, what a crush back there.”

Jamie took out a packet of Woodbines. “I doubt it, Mother.”

“Well, where are they from?”

“Kent. His father owns a bathtub manufactory.”

“Bathtubs – good Lord.” Charles let out a barking laugh. 

Jamie lit his cigarette. “Someone’s got to make them.”

“How lovely,” Margaret said, but it was clear her interest had dwindled. “Talking of bathtubs, I wish some of those soldiers had bothered to wash before coming home. The stench in the station was positively frightful.”

Jamie was about to explain that not every soldier had hot water and soap readily available to him, or even cold water and soap, but it seemed too much trouble. He stifled a sigh and nodded to Murchison as he climbed into the car. “How’s Wee Comet, Murchison?”

“He’s getting on, sir, but he’s still spry, I can tell you that.” Murchison steered the automobile into the street. “Frisky as a colt – nipped me on the elbow last week-end when he fancied I hadn’t given him enough sugar.”

Jamie laughed and settled to comfortable horse talk, and tried not to count the minutes until the following evening.

 

*

 

“Jamie, do stop pacing,” Margaret complained. “You’re making me frightfully nervous. What on earth’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry.” Jamie pitched his cigarette into the fire and threw himself down on a sofa. Instantly he regretted getting rid of the cigarette and leaving his hands with nothing to do. He reached up and adjusted the tilt on his black tie, then examined his shirt studs and cufflinks. Finally, sensing his mother’s puzzled and disapproving gaze, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap.

“Better,” she said, lifting one eyebrow. “Goodness, you’ve been so distracted today. I expect it’s the change of being home after so much upheaval.”

 _Not quite._ “Yes, I expect so.”

“I am glad you were able to visit the barber. You were altogether too unkempt.”

It was Jamie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Not much time for grooming in the trenches, Mother.”

“I know that, of course. It’s just nice to see you looking so smart.” She beamed at him, then looked at the clock as the door-bell rang. “Heavens, that’s not your friend already? He’s early.”

Jamie jumped up. “I’d better go and see –“

“Oh, do sit down. We’ve got Cora for that, Jamie.” 

“Who’s that? Not your pal Nicholls already?” Charles strolled into the room, his face flushed over his stiff collar. “Christ, Meg, have you got to keep it so hot in here? It’s April, for God’s sake.”

“And it’s cold and rainy outdoors,” she said. “You’ll thank me later, Charles. Are you ready to go?”

“In a minute. No point in rushing – we agreed to meet Reggie and Grace at seven. Bloody place is only a stone’s throw from here.” Charles went to the drinks cart and poured himself a whiskey. “Jamie?”

“No, thank you, Father.” Jamie kept his gaze fixed on the doorway, determined to see Jim as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and was disappointed to see the maid enter alone. “Is it Captain Nicholls, Cora?”

“No, sir,” the maid replied. “Letter for you, sir.”

“For me?” Jamie took the proffered envelope, and examined the seal. He sighed, broke it, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Scanning it quickly, he shook his head, then noticed that his parents were watching him with avid curiosity.

“Not bad news?” Charles asked.

“No.” Jamie realised he’d better get it over with, and handed the letter to his father.

Charles whipped a pince-nez from his jacket and placed it firmly on his nose. “’George V, by the grace of God King of England and His other realms, et cetera, et cetera…know you that it is Our will and pleasure that the Victoria Cross of England is awarded for an act of the most conspicuous gallantry….’” He trailed off and continued reading, his lips moving soundlessly.

“Charles, I do wish you wouldn’t….” Margaret swept to Charles’ side in a rustle of violet silk and began reading over his shoulder. “Oh – oh, Jamie!”

Jamie felt heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “Yes. I rather thought they’d wait, but….” He shrugged.

“’Colonel James Charles MacKenzie Stewart.’” Charles stared at him. “You’re a colonel. Good God, son.” He was at Jamie’s side in a bound, seizing his hand and shaking it, thumping Jamie on the back. “Good God! I’m proud of you – damned proud of you.”

Margaret came forward and took Jamie’s face in her hands. “Oh, darling. The Victoria Cross! I always knew you were brave, but –“ She kissed him. “Marvellous, really.”

“How’d it happen?” Charles demanded. “It doesn’t give details here.”

Jamie felt for his cigarette box and realised he’d left it upstairs. “It was a coincidence, really. A number of us were on the march and sought shelter in a farmhouse. The whole village had been burnt out, and we thought we were alone. Turns out we weren’t.” He went to the cigarette box on a table, extracted one, and lit it. “But as chance would have it, I was outside when the Jerries showed up, so I was able to give a signal, and we weren’t slaughtered.” He’d climbed to the flat roof of an abandoned bakery and picked off a number of the enemy. The night had been wild with thunder and lightning, and he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted as he crouched on the roof, shooting with grim and ferocious intent as his comrades in the farmhouse gathered their wits and began a counter-assault. It had been a short and bloody battle, and three of his men had died, one of them young Willie Doyle. He’d written a heartfelt letter of condolence that praised the boy’s courage to the skies, knowing damned well it would never make up for his parents’ loss and grief.

“Dashed proud of you, Jamie,” Charles said. He finished his whiskey in a single draught.

“Philip will be delighted to hear it. I must write him,” Margaret said. She took the letter from Charles. “You’ve a presentation to attend on the twentieth. Darling, is that why you were granted the leave in the first place?”

“I suppose so,” Jamie said. He took out his watch. Ten minutes until seven o’clock. “You’d better go. You’re going to be late.”

“Yes, we had. Do give Captain Nicholls our regards, Jamie. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear the news as well. Come along, Charles. Good night, dear.” She gave Jamie the letter and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Good night. I may be quite late this evening, Mother.”

“All right. Cora can wait up for you.”

“It’s not necessary. Murchison found me a key.” He waved at his parents and went to the mantel, glad for the warmth of the fire. He’d spent all winter wet and half-frozen, and still fancied he felt icy mud clinging to him at all times. He wondered if he’d ever be able to shake it. He opened the folded letter and read it again. 

_Conspicuous act of gallantry indeed._ He hadn’t felt gallant that January night – he’d been terrified and full of rage. Though he didn’t object to the elevation in rank, he hadn’t wanted the medal; there were other chaps more deserving than he, but he’d been politely shouted down, and his superiors had even managed to get a letter of recommendation from the elusive Colonel McMuir.

Jamie drew on his cigarette and studied the Millais over the mantel. It depicted Esther, the Jewish wife of the Persian king Artaxerxes, in the moment before informing her husband of a plot. She’d risked death warning her husband, but had triumphed in the end. “You could tell them a thing or two about gallantry, old girl,” Jamie murmured, and then froze at the sound of the door bell.

He was out of the room in a flash, but the maid was already opening the door. Jim stood under the portico in a trench-coat spotted with water droplets. At the sight of Jamie he smiled brightly and removed his cap.

“Come in,” Jamie said, and moved forward to usher Jim into the hall.

Jim saluted. “Colonel Stewart.”

“Oh God, not you too,” Jamie groaned.

“Come on now, you expect me _not_ to read the despatches? Of course me too.” Jim transferred his cane to his left hand, shook Jamie’s hand with his right, and then pulled him into a brief embrace. “It’s smashing, Jamie, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” He stood back and inspected Jamie. “You look quite the thing, old man. I’m afraid we’re only dining at the officers’ club tonight.”

“I don’t mind.” His heart sank. Much as he valued his fellow officers, he knew that an evening at the officers’ club would turn into an agonisingly long evening of reminiscences and war talk, and the last bloody thing he wanted this evening was reminiscing and war talk.

Jim tilted his head to one side. “You don’t want to go to the officers’ club.”

“I’m delighted to go wherever you want, old man.”

“Hmm. Look here, I’ve got an idea. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but there’s a little fish-and-chip restaurant in Marylebone. It’s not the Savoy or the Ritz by any means, but –“

“Fish and chips.” Jamie grinned. “I’ve been _dreaming_ about proper fish and chips.”

“They’ll be stunned to see someone all rigged up, so the service should be top-notch. Right, cab’s waiting. Shall we go?” Jim gave him another melting smile, and Jamie felt his heartbeat quicken once more.

 

*

 

The restaurant was bustling when they arrived, but they found a table tucked into a corner and in no time had generous platters of fish, chips, and peas. Jamie finished his first plaice and sighed. “Brilliant idea, old man. This is a thousand times better than the Ritz. Besides, that’s where my parents were eating this evening.” He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, painfully aware that Jim was looking at him and that he’d been seized by a sudden fit of intense shyness. It was absurd, he knew; all those months of longing, all those letters whose contents were perfectly innocent and yet weighted with meaning and banked desire, and now he couldn’t bring himself to meet Jim’s honest gaze. “I mustn’t tell them I came here, by the way – I’d never hear the end of it. Mother thinks that if a restaurant hasn’t a fourteen-course meal cooked by a French _chef_ , it isn’t worth mentioning, let alone visiting.”

“You don’t know how good it is to see you,” Jim said softly.

Jamie set his fork on his plate. “I’m nattering, aren’t I? It’s a funny old thing – there was a fellow on the train yesterday and he just wouldn’t shut his mouth, and I spent the entire journey wishing I could get up and – oh, God. Say something, Jim. Stop me from jabbering on like a complete idiot.”

“I could listen to you read the contents of the London telephone directory and be perfectly content.”

“Rubbish.” Heat filled Jamie’s face, and he met Jim’s eyes. Good God – when would this sensation, this thrill of adoration, the bliss and wonder of seeing Jim in the flesh again, cease? The strength of its intensity frightened him. He’d kept Jim’s letters close to his heart, kept the sound of his voice and the chiselled masculine beauty of his face and body closer still, but those were poor substitutes indeed when compared with reality. He wanted to hold Jim close, to kiss him, to make love to him, to celebrate the fact that they were both alive, that he adored him and needed him more badly than he’d ever needed anyone in his entire life, and he wanted to express all that to him in poetry. He tried to think of something eloquent and beautiful to say. “I missed you so much,” he said at last.

Jim’s countenance flooded with warmth. “Did you?”

“Every moment. You got me through the worst of it, Jim, even when you weren’t there. I read your letters to pieces – quite literally. I tried to keep them safe, but not all of them survived the damp and re-reading.” Jamie smiled shamefacedly. “All those little packages and notes and drawings –“ His voice caught in his throat, and he paused to collect himself. “I wish I could tell you what they meant to me.”

“I think perhaps you just did.”

Jamie’s face burned. He found himself staring at the shape of Jim’s mouth. It was firm, made for kissing. He felt his sex stirring to life and took a deep swallow of his beer, trying to get himself under control.

“Jamie, if you knew how eagerly I looked forward to your letters. Every time I got one, I felt euphoria, fear, yearning –“ Jim bit his lower lip. “I thought if you – if something had happened to you, I couldn’t survive it. I simply wouldn’t have the strength. To have you here now –“ He smiled. “I’m saying all this to you in a fish-and-chip shop. It’s a bit absurd, isn’t it?”

“Where else would you say it?”

Jim stared down at his unfinished dinner for a moment. Then, without raising his eyes, he said, “Would you like to come to my flat?”

“Yes,” Jamie said quietly. “Yes.”

 

*

 

Jim’s flat was in Hampstead, in a row of neat little houses. Jim had the first floor of his building. “Dashed good luck for me,” he said, fumbling with his key. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to manage stairs at first. Ah, here we are. _Bienvenue chez_ Nicholls.” He opened the door, gesturing for Jamie to precede him, and turned on the light. “Electricity in every room, modern bathroom and kitchen – all the conveniences. I’m quite proud of it, not that I had a thing to do with its construction. Give me your hat and coat and go on into the parlour.”

Jamie took off his silk hat and gloves and shrugged out of his topcoat. “Why, it’s lovely, Jim.” He looked around at the spacious room, its striped wallpaper and velvet drapes, the comfortable, old-fashioned furniture, the slightly faded rugs on a polished floor the colour of dark honey.

“Most of it is cast off from my parents,” Jim said, his voice slightly muffled as he hung Jamie’s coat and his own on the hall rack. “Mother was delighted – she’d been wanting new things for ages, and my flat was the perfect excuse to get rid of this old stuff. I’m glad you like it.” Jim walked into the room, his cane thudding on the floor. 

“It’s quite solid. Comfortable.” Jamie’s gaze landed on their regimental photograph sitting on a little mahogany table. He moved toward it and picked it up, examining it closely. He and Jim and Charlie stood close together, gazing solemnly at the camera. “Good God,” he murmured. “Seems a hundred years ago. Poor Charlie. He was so brave, Jim.”

“I know. He was. So are you.” Jim came to stand beside him; affectionately, he touched the photograph in its silver frame. “Don’t we all look like boys there? We’d no idea what we were in for.”

“No. None at all.” Jamie replaced the photograph and gazed at it. A sigh escaped him, and he felt the sudden heat and pressure of Jim’s hand on his arm, comforting him wordlessly. He yearned to lean back into Jim’s touch, but the drive to the flat had drained the urgency and heat from him; he felt shy and awkward again.

Jim seemed to divine his discomfiture and turned the caress into a brisk pat. “I’ll give you the grand tour a bit later. What about a drink? Whiskey?”

“I’d like that, old man.”

“Sit, then. Anywhere you like.” Jim indicated the parlour with a wave and thumped into the kitchen.

Jamie moved to the flowered sofa, then hesitated. “Can’t I help? Can you manage?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine!” Jim called. “The leg’s still a bit achy in the damp, but I’m quite dexterous, you wait and see. Just sit down there. I’ll get a fire going in a moment. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?”

“Let me do that.” Jamie went to the fireplace, glad to have something to do, and bent to the task of arranging paper spills and wood chips. He found matches in an engraved steel box on the mantel and lit the kindling, then shook coal from the decorative silver bucket onto the fire. It sputtered a bit, then caught, glowing cheerfully in the hearth. 

“Oh, Jamie, you’ll get all mucky.” Jim appeared in the doorway, a tray with two glasses and a bottle balanced in one hand.

Jamie rose to his feet, took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. “I’ve been half-drowning in trench mud for more than a year. A little coal dust isn’t going to kill me.”

Jim looked contrite. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“Not at all. Here, let me get that.”

“Just put the tray on the table there, next to the sofa.” Jim lowered himself to the sofa and stretched out his leg. He took both glasses and handed one to Jamie, holding his up. “To homecomings.”

“Cheers,” Jamie said, touching his glass to Jim’s. He sipped at the whiskey, relishing its smoothness, grateful for the sweet golden trail of heat that blazed its way down to his stomach. He needed the warmth; the room was cold, and he was nearly shivering with a curious apprehension that coiled inside him, disquieting as any silence before the roar of guns.

“Usually the fire would be lit, but it’s Mrs. Taylor’s day off and I collected you straight from the office.”

“It’s perfectly all right. I’m used to cold.”

“Yes, I dare say you must be.” Jim gazed down into his glass and swirled the liquid around a bit. “Was it a rough trip over the Channel? I still have dreadful memories of the voyage over and back. I’m not much of a sailor, I’m afraid. Thank goodness I didn’t join the navy.”

“It was fine. I hardly noticed if it was rough, to be honest. I was so intent on getting home.”

“Are you excited about meeting the King?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought it over. I suppose so.” Jamie smiled briefly. “I don’t think I’ll really be chatting with him. I’m told it’s a very brief ceremony, which is more than agreeable to me. In and out.”

Jim grinned. “How efficient.”

“Yes, I’m fond of efficiency.” Jamie chuckled. 

“Will you tell me how you got it?”

Jamie sighed. “Luck. No more.” He began to sketch out the story, intending to give only a very short rendition of what had happened, but as he spoke, the details firmed themselves in his mind and he found himself telling every bit of that night’s horror. “I saw their faces, you know,” he said softly, “quite clearly. There was lightning flashing, and it illuminated the night as if it were noon. They were all so young, Jim, as young as my men – boys, really. Because of the rain and thunder and lightning, they had no idea where the shots were coming from. They were confused, frightened – easy to pick off. So I did. One by one, using nature to shield me and help me gun them down.”

“You did it to protect your company.”

“Yes,” Jamie said, “but I had murder in my heart, Jim. It was revenge for what happened to us, for Charlie, for the men imprisoned in the village – do you know I don’t even recall its name? What was its name, Jim?”

“I don’t know,” Jim said softly. “I can’t remember. It was Flemish – I don’t speak it. I can’t remember.”

“They never told me. I never saw a sign. But I had that place in my mind’s eye as I gunned those boys down.” He drained his whiskey. “Another, please, Jim.”

Jim poured another glass. “Are you all right? Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked –“

“I’m fine.” Jamie smiled, but it was a tight, unpleasant rictus of a grin, he knew, and he took another drink to cover it. “Bloody hell, I don’t know. I did my duty as I saw it, but my head, Jim, and my heart – Christ.” He swallowed what was left of the whiskey and stared at the empty glass in bemusement, as if someone had made off with the liquid when he wasn’t looking.

“You didn’t write me about it.”

“No. I was ashamed, Jim. I know it saved a lot of lives, but it’s nothing to reward, believe me. There’s no gallantry in an act committed in rage.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Jamie. Do you know, I was reading the other day – Hobbes, I think – and he said that war was man’s natural state. But I don’t – I can’t believe that. If you’d asked me that three years ago, I might have agreed – I felt the blood run hot in my veins when we charged, when I read the recruiting posters and all those newspaper columns exhorting us to defend our country – but the truth, Jamie, is that war was horrible to me, alien and frightening. Do you remember the morning of the charge?”

Jamie set his glass on the floor. “Yes, of course I do. Every moment of it.”

“You asked me if I was developing scruples.”

“Jim, I –“

“No – let me finish.” Jim drained off the rest of his glass and put it on the tray. He turned back to Jamie and took his hands in his own. “I _did_ have scruples. Maybe it’s just cowardice.”

“You, a coward? Come on, Jim –“

“You’re going to say I rescued you right under the Germans’ collective nose, and I did, and I’d do it again. And I’m doing my bit now, as best I can. It’s not nearly as brave as what you’re doing – don’t wrinkle your nose at me, it’s true. And I’ll do my bit with my whole heart. But I long for peace, Jamie. Every newspaper account, every casualty list, every despatch convinces me that war is unnatural, and immoral. Statesmen make wars, and young men fight them, and in the end, so little is achieved. I know you’ll call me cynical for saying it, but it’s true.” Jim’s hands gripped Jamie’s tightly. He took a deep breath, like a diver about to hurl himself off a cliff, and then released it with a shudder.

Jamie gazed at Jim. “Jim, you’re…extraordinary, do you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes. You…you speak your heart and mind like no-one I’ve ever known.”

Jim smiled bashfully. “I went to a Jesuit school. The Jesuits are great believers in dialectic, so I tried to learn to use reason, but I was always a bit too attached to the personal and the passionate, they said. And they were right. Don’t you see…all I want, Jamie, is for you to be safe. To come home safely.”

Jamie looked down at their clasped hands and found his courage. He drew Jim close and, gently extricating one hand, rested it against the nape of Jim’s neck. His fingers brushed against smooth, warm skin, detecting the faint pulse beneath the flesh, and he moved closer and touched his lips to Jim’s.

Jim’s mouth was warm and inviting, and slowly, the kisses grew deeper, the intensity mounting until they held each other close, their mouths sealed together. Jim suckled on Jamie’s lower lip, teasing at it, biting gently until Jamie groaned. He kissed Jamie’s ear and dipped his tongue inside the sensitive canal, then sucked delicately on the lobe. His hands caressed Jamie’s hair and the nape of his neck.

“I don’t suppose,” Jim whispered, “you’d like to see the bedroom?”

“Show me.” 

They rose from the sofa, still exploring each other’s mouth, and made their way down the narrow hall. Jim broke away and opened a door. “Here.” He turned on a lamp on the bedside table, illuminating a small but tidy bedroom, most of its floor space dominated by a brass bed. He pulled the quilt and blankets down, then folded the top sheet back with studied care. He unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and let it drop to the floor, then sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. Quickly, he took off his tunic, draping it over the brass foot-rail of the bed, and untied his tie. He slid his braces from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor beside the Sam Browne belt. “So many clothes.”

Jamie’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to undress?”

“I’d rather watch you first.”

Jim grinned. “Now I’m not sure I can.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Jamie sank to his knees in front of Jim and moved his hands toward the buttons of Jim’s trousers. He hesitated, then rested his arms across Jim’s knees, gazing up at him. “Jim…I haven’t much experience with this sort of thing. There was a bit of groping at Sandhurst, but I never…I suppose I never let it get too far. I probably should have said so before.”

“Nonsense, don’t be silly.” Jim caressed Jamie’s hair, pushing a stray lock back into place.

“I suppose you’ve lots of experience.”

“Not much. One girl, one boy.”

Jamie tried not to feel jealousy. “Who was the boy?”

“A lad at my school. He was a bit older than I, and…well, I doubt I got that much further than you did. He did teach me a thing or two, though.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll show you. Stand up.”

Jamie stood on shaking legs and clasped his hands behind his back, shivering as Jim unbuttoned his trousers. He stifled a gasp as Jim’s hand delved inside and found his sex, already hard and aching, and closed upon it gently. “Oh, God –“

“Shh. Look at me, Jamie.”

Jamie looked down at Jim’s face; it was radiant in the lamplight, his eyes wide. “I want to kiss you again,” he said in a rasping whisper.

“All right.” Jim stood, his hand still closed around Jamie’s sex, and kissed him again. His tongue lightly delineated the inner softness of Jamie’s lips, tracing round and round until Jamie was moaning with need. Only then did his hand move, pressing softly, sliding up and down. 

Jamie keened into Jim’s mouth. His hands slipped round Jim’s body and clasped his tight backside. He pushed his body into Jim’s hand, desperate for deeper, rougher contact. “Please. Please.” He felt Jim’s free hand urging the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he struggled out of it as quickly as he could, throwing it heedlessly to one side. Clumsily, he tugged Jim’s grey wool undershirt up and off, letting it dangle from the hand that still pressed against his sex in the lightest, most maddening fashion. His hands fumbled with the buttons of Jim’s trousers, and before he knew what was happening, they’d tumbled to the bed in a tangle of half-removed clothes.

He could master his impatience and arousal no longer. He kissed Jim with greater ferocity and rolled atop him, pinning him to the bed. Jim’s hand had disappeared from around his sex, but Jamie slid forward until he felt Jim’s hardness against his. 

A cry escaped Jim’s open mouth. “Oh, God, Jamie –“

Jamie rocked against Jim’s erection, feeling Jim’s hips thrusting upward. He wanted to pause to admire Jim’s long torso, to explore every bit of his lean body, but his desire had become a mad, raging thing, and he rubbed frantically against Jim’s cock, hardly aware that he was moaning. Jim wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him down so they could kiss again, and their muffled cries grew more desperate until Jim let out a shuddering gasp and sudden wet heat splashed against Jamie’s belly.

“Finish, Jamie, finish – please, oh, God –“

Jamie ground himself against the sudden slickness and captured Jim’s mouth again, thrusting harder until the pleasure and urgency crested and blazed within him, and he cried out as his climax overtook his body and tumbled him into blind ecstasy. He collapsed and dragged himself from atop Jim’s body, but Jim’s arms held him tightly.

“No. Stay.”

Breathless, Jamie nodded, and rested his head on Jim’s shoulder, drinking in his scent. He felt himself drifting toward sleep, and nodded off for a moment or more. He awoke to the lovely sensation of Jim stroking his hair. “That feels wonderful.”

“Your hair’s so soft, Jamie. Mine’s like a million electrified wires.”

Jamie reached up and touched Jim’s disheveled curls. “Liar.” He raised himself to one elbow and surveyed their mutual state of dishabille. “I think my shirt got the worst of that.”

“Oh, dear. Sorry.”

Jamie smiled. “I’m not.”

“We can wash it out. You don’t have to leave, do you?” Jim grasped Jamie’s wrist. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Jamie replied.

A brilliant smile lit Jim’s face. “Good. Stay.”

 

*


	7. Quick to the light of the sun

_When men who knew them walk old ways alone,_  
The paths they loved together, at even-fall,  
Then the sad heart shall know a presence near,  
Friendly, familiar, and the old grief gone,  
The new keen joy shall make all darkness clear. 

\---Ivor Gurney, _Afterwards_

 

*

 

“Blasted nuisances.”

Jim, crouching between Jamie’s knees as Jamie sat on the edge of the bathtub, chuckled but didn’t look up from his struggle with Jamie’s cufflink. “Well, they are a bit tricky – these are, at any rate. And I do think buttons are a bit more practical. But these are very smart, I must admit.”

“I’m just going to leave the damned things off next time.”

“Oh, you can’t do that. Sleeves flapping everywhere. You’d be a social…pariah.” Jim squinted and tugged. “I’m afraid to break them. Ah! There we are.” He beamed happily and showed one engraved silver cufflink in the palm of his hand, then laid it carefully on the vanity table next to Jamie’s shirt studs. “Other hand, please.”

Jamie transferred his cigarette to his left hand and proffered the right to Jim, glad that they had something to occupy the moment. He’d thought that their frenzy of intimacy would shatter any boundaries left between them, but unaccountably, he felt shyer than ever and quite unable to meet Jim’s eyes. He plucked a fleck of tobacco from his lower lip and examined it as intently as if it were a Fabergé egg. “You didn’t exaggerate about the bathroom. Spiffing.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Jim glanced around at the modern white-and-black tiled room with its porcelain tub and sink and gleaming fixtures. A wet evening breeze blew the crisp white cotton curtains inward. “That’s one of my dad’s tubs you’re perched on there.”

“Is it?” Jamie twisted a bit to look at the tub. “Did you have it refitted?”

“No, just coincidence. He was delighted when he saw it and insisted this was the flat for me. Happily, it _is_ quite cosy, so I didn’t put up an argument. Good Lord, did you weld these on?” Jim gritted his teeth. “There! Got it.” 

“Thanks, Jim. I’d still be trapped in the damn shirt if it weren’t for you.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, I assure you.” Jim set the second link next to the first, then turned Jamie’s hand over so the palm faced upwards. “Jamie?” 

“Yes?”

“You’re not sorry about what we did, are you?” Jim addressed Jamie’s knees, and his voice was almost inaudible.

Jamie wet his lips. Sorry? He’d never forget it, his appalling awkwardness notwithstanding, for the rest of his life. “No, Jim. I’m not sorry at all.”

Jim looked up at him, relief and joy shining in his eyes. He brought Jamie’s palm to his lips and kissed it, then kissed the pale underside of Jamie’s wrist. “I dreamed of being this close to you – of being able to touch you, and taste and smell you. For more than a year I lived on the strength of one kiss, and every day I feared it might have been our last.”

“I – I was afraid of that too.” 

“You’ve gone quite pink. Am I very foolish for saying these things to you?”

“No.” Tentatively, Jamie brushed his hand over Jim’s unruly curls. “You mustn’t think that. It’s only that I’m a bit – well, tongue-tied. I don’t know how to say beautiful things the way you do. I haven’t the gift for it. I wish I did.”

“I don’t need you to say beautiful things.” Jim rose to his feet and grimaced.

“I shouldn’t have let you kneel like that.” Jamie hastened to stand and support Jim, who was wobbling the slightest bit. “Is the pain very bad?”

“It’s a twinge, no more,” Jim insisted, though his face was white. “You mustn’t worry on my account. It _is_ healed – it’s only that it aches now and then.”

“But you’re still using a cane.” Jamie stubbed out his cigarette in the pristine glass ash-tray Jim had given him.

“Well…yes, that’s true. I know, I’d hoped to be sprinting to the station to see you, but the best I can manage right now is a fast limp. I don’t know that I’ll ever ride again, or even get up to more than a trot myself.” Jim turned away, giving Jamie ample opportunity to admire the elegant length of his back. “Believe me, I wish I were whole and fit.”

The sudden slump of Jim’s shoulders tore at Jamie’s heart and spoke volumes. Dear Jim, so determined to be cheerful for Jamie’s sake, so optimistic in his letters, never saying a word about the possibility that his injuries might be permanent. “I don’t care,” he said, and rested a hand on one shoulder, then gently urged Jim round to face him. “I wouldn’t care if you’d lost both arms and legs. You’d – you’d mean no less to me. I only care that it still causes you pain.”

The anxiety in Jim’s face dissolved, and he put his arms around Jamie and embraced him. “I thought you said you were no good at saying beautiful things.” His hand cupped the back of Jamie’s head, caressing it. “Tell me what else you’re hiding behind that terribly correct military composure.”

Jamie found his hands stroking the smooth skin of Jim’s back, over delicate vertebral bumps and the angular precision of his shoulder blades, and then he kissed Jim’s neck, his lips brushing against the faint prickle of beard, moving up his jawline, then finding Jim’s mouth, lips already parted to receive Jamie’s kiss. He was aroused again, and moved his body closer to Jim’s.

Panting a little, Jim broke the kiss. “Are you trying to drag me back into bed already?”

“Would that be so awful?”

“It would be positively smashing, but we’ve got to wash your shirt first. I don’t want you to leave, not tonight. Will your parents be furious if you stay the night?”

“I doubt they’ll notice. You haven’t got a telephone, have you?” Jim shook his head. “Oh well, no matter. They’ll survive.” Jamie reluctantly moved away from Jim and took off his shirt. “What sort of soap should I launder this with?”

“Mrs. Taylor uses a powdered soap and that bluing stuff for my laundry, but I think Pears should do in a pinch.” Jim turned the water on in the bathtub. “Give it here.”

“I can do it.”

“Hand it over, if you please, _Colonel_. I’m at your service. I say, is your undershirt in need of laundering as well?”

Jamie inspected it. “Ah…perhaps, yes.” He grinned bashfully.

“Off with it. We’ll wash them and hang them up over the register and they should be dry by morning.” 

Wanting to be the model of obedience, Jamie tugged off his undershirt and handed it to Jim, who couldn’t seem to drag his eyes from Jamie’s naked chest. Embarrassed heat prickled over Jamie’s skin, and it was all he could do not to turn away despite the open admiration on Jim’s face. “Who taught you to do laundry?” he asked in desperation. “Your housekeeper or someone at home?”

“Oh.” Jim finally wrenched his gaze upward and smiled. “Nobody, except for those field instructions we got ages ago, do you remember those? I can’t imagine it’s all that difficult, though. It’s just soap and water. Are your trousers all right?”

“Yes. A bit wrinkled, that’s all.”

Jim bent to the bathtub faucet and turned on the hot-water tap. “Perhaps you should take them off. I’ve got a spare dressing gown. It’s in the wardrobe in my bedroom. Go and put it on, and you can hang your trousers up in here. The steam might help.”

Jamie nodded and went back into the bedroom. It was faintly pungent, so Jamie opened a window and then stripped with trembling fingers, scarcely able to fold his trousers neatly. Inexperienced as he was, he wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t realise that he and Jim had hardly begun to explore one another, and the thought that there was more pleasure to come was nearly overwhelming. He found the dressing gown, silk-lined wool, and slipped it on. Catching a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror in one corner, he laughed at the sight of his black silk stockings peeking out from beneath the hem of the robe and took them off, leaving them attached to the garters, and carelessly tossed them to one side next to his evening shoes.

“What are you laughing at?” Jim asked, strolling into the bedroom with a heap of blue towelling over one arm.

“Myself. Why should one look more natural barefoot in a dressing gown? Why do socks look so ridiculous with them?”

“Ah. You’ve struck upon one of the great mysteries of life.” Jim tossed the towelling – a bathrobe, Jamie saw – onto the bed. “I think that might be second to the question of why people will happily eat bacon and eggs for breakfast, but if someone should suggest it for supper, pitying gazes ensue.”

“That is an enormously complicated question,” Jamie replied solemnly.

“True. You see, that Jesuit sophistry didn’t go to waste after all. And I love bacon and eggs for supper.” Jim picked up Jamie’s trousers. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jamie paced the narrow L-shaped section of floor space in Jim’s bedroom. The room itself was sparsely furnished, of necessity: besides the bed, there was the small wardrobe, one straight-backed chair, the mirror tucked in the corner, and a night table with a lamp on the far side of the bed. There was a picture-print on one wall, a landscape in bosky dark greens, and a crucifix hung between two windows. Jamie examined it for a moment. His own religious upbringing had been somewhat laissez-faire: he had been christened – somewhere in the Selkirk house there was a dreadfully stiff daguerreotype of his mother holding his tiny infant figure in a white gown that swept the floor in a heavy curtain of Valenciennes lace, with his father standing expressionlessly by – and his mother had taken him and Philip to church with some regularity when they were children, but he hadn’t set foot inside a church in years and he doubted Philip had either. He wondered how devout Jim was, and if what they’d done had constituted some sort of sin that merited eternal damnation.

“I won it in school.”

Jamie wheeled. “Sorry?”

“I won that,” Jim said, pointing to the crucifix, “in school, in a Latin competition. I can still quote entire passages of _Quaestiones Disputatae de Potentia Dei_. It’s a very dull party trick, but then most parties aren’t populated by budding Aquinists.” 

“Do you go to church?”

“Sometimes. I’m a rather lackadaisical Catholic, much to the distress of my mother. Do you?”

Jamie shook his head. “When I was a child, yes. Not now. I still pray once in a while. I don’t know that my prayers reach God’s ears, though.”

“Well, one of mine has,” Jim said. “You’re home.”

 _Only for a fortnight_ , Jamie thought, but didn’t say it. “I’d no idea you were such a scholar.”

Jim chuckled and limped toward the bed, resting his hand on the brass footrail, next to his still-folded uniform tunic. “Sometimes I think I should have learnt something more useful, like carpentry or banking.” Casually, he scratched his flat belly, leaving pink streaks across a taut expanse of skin the colour of cream. “I’ve tried to think what I might do once the war is over and I confess nothing appealing comes to mind.”

“You’re going to resign your commission?”

“I’d have resigned it already if I weren’t working for the army. Soldiering was a youthful dream, one my father encouraged when he realised I didn’t want to make bathtubs. The reality….” Jim shrugged. “What about you? Do you plan to stay once the war’s over?”

Jamie hesitated, then walked to the bed and sat. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his hand up and down the blue towelling of Jim’s bathrobe, watching the threads go pale and dark by turns. “Frankly, Jim, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

A silence pervaded the room, broken only by Jim’s soft, indrawn breath.

Jamie looked up at Jim, whose face was white and pinched. “What’s wrong?”

Jim gripped the bedrail tightly enough to blanch the knuckles. “You mustn’t say that. You mustn’t even think it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help it, old man.” Jamie tried for a light laugh and failed.

“Jamie –“ Jim sank to the bed beside him. “Jamie, please don’t think badly of me for speaking in this way. I’m not as hopelessly stupid as that sounded, or at least I pray I’m not. I know I only faced it for a short while, but I remember awakening in that glade and struggling to my feet, thanking God I’d been spared, only to see all that…slaughter, all that death.”

Jamie nodded, staring down at the bathrobe again, his hand moving ceaselessly over the fabric, stopped only by Jim’s hand closing over it. How many times had he thought that he’d passed beyond fear, only to encounter it again in the next shelling or shooting? How many times had he fought past the paralysis that threatened to fell him for good; how many times had he turned a blind but compassionate eye to the silent weeping of his men? He no longer chided them for their tears. They were entitled to their tears, their terror, their grief for their fallen comrades. They lived in an endless haze of blood and gas and agony and death. Though his discipline was still rigorous, it was tempered with weary understanding. It was April of 1916, and they were all exhausted, homesick, grieving. At times he wondered when apathy would creep in and poison them as surely as the mustard gas that drifted yellow foulness over the fields of battle. Each time he led a raid or defended against one, he marshalled thoughts of patriotism, of home, of Jim, and hoped it would be enough to sustain him. So far, it had. But for how much longer?

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Jim begged.

Jamie looked up at Jim’s strained, white face. What must it be like for him, for all those who waited, hoping and praying, dreading the terse letter penned by a superior officer? “Forgive me, Jim. I don’t mean to be so morbid.”

“I know you can’t help it. I know. Please, I don’t wish to stifle you –“

“I don’t want to think of it at all, but I’ve got to. I’ve got to go back, and I’m frightened.” Jamie shuddered. “Can you credit that at all – after a year and a half at the front, I’m still afraid.” 

“Oh, Jamie –“ Jim wrapped his arms round Jamie’s body, pulling him close, and Jamie clung to him desperately. “I wish I could go with you.”

“I’m glad you can’t. If you weren’t here waiting, I might have given up by now.”

“No.” Jim’s grasp tightened. “You promised I wouldn’t lose you. You swore an oath.” He kissed Jamie’s throat, then his mouth. “You swore,” he whispered against Jamie’s lips.

“Don’t let’s talk about it any longer. I’ve made you unhappy. I’m sorry.” Jamie breathed in Jim’s scent, intoxicating, complex, so gloriously alive.

“No. You’ve never made me anything but happy. All those evenings in the officers’ mess, when I couldn’t do anything but stare at you – good God, I was so confused, but almost delirious with joy just being near you. And now, happy doesn’t even begin to describe it.” Jim kissed Jamie’s throat again, his teeth grazing Jamie’s collarbone. “I’m greedy and I don’t care. I don’t want to let you go.” His mouth descended again, warm, wet, suckling and kissing. He urged Jamie down until he lay supine, then untied the belt of the dressing gown and opened it. “I want to see you. I’ve imagined it for so long.”

Jamie wet dry lips and nodded. He wrenched his arms out of the dressing gown, then lifted his hips to struggle out of his smalls, brushing the knitted material against his half-hard prick. He stifled a groan as he worked them down his legs and kicked them off. Completely naked, he leaned back on his elbows, feeling exposed and immodest at once, and felt a telling blush crawling up his neck.

“Oh.” Jim scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “Oh, God, Jamie. You’re beautiful.”

Jamie closed his mouth on the automatic denial. It was an ordinary body, just this side of lanky, healthy enough he supposed, but it was different, he realised, when the body belonged to someone one had long desired, and he wouldn’t spoil Jim’s pleasure. He thought of the few nights of privacy he’d had, fondling himself soundlessly in a village privy or secluded glade of trees, thinking of Jim, yearning for him, for their bodies pressed together. The fantasies hadn’t come close to the reality, and they’d only just started. “Now you,” he said.

“You won’t mind my scars?”

For a moment Jamie simply gaped at Jim. “Mind? How could I mind?”

“They’re ugly.”

“Show me.”

Jim swallowed, then nodded, and bent to remove his wool socks. He let them drop to the floor, then got slowly to his feet, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid them and his smallclothes down in one fluid motion. Eyes downcast, he turned toward Jamie and gestured toward his thigh. “There,” he said, then sat on the bed and tapped his shin. “And there.”

The bullet scar on the thigh was faded purple, a knot of puckered flesh the size of a child’s fist. The scar from the plate surgery was a paler bluish-white, narrow, but long, traversing almost the entire length of Jim’s shin. Jamie reached out and brushed his fingertips down the raised flesh, then bent to kiss it.

“Oh, Jamie, don’t –“ Jim pulled his leg back.

“It’s a thank-you,” Jamie said. “They’re not ugly, Jim.” _Nothing about you could be ugly._ He smiled and gently caressed the flesh again. “Not ugly at all.”

“It’s a silly vanity, I know. I realise you’ve seen much worse. But I’ve never been crippled, or damaged before, and I can’t help thinking of all those pitying stares in the street when I couldn’t walk properly. I was afraid you wouldn’t….“

Jamie frowned. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Well, that you wouldn’t want me once you saw them.”

Jamie caressed Jim’s knee with the back of his hand. “I want you. And besides, those scars were bravely got – you got them rescuing me. If it’s not awfully presumptuous of me, I think of them as badges of honour.”

Jim moved forward and kissed Jamie’s mouth, then slid close and fitted their bodies together. A little groan escaped him. “I’ve wanted this for so long. It feels wonderful.”

Jamie felt Jim’s prick hardening against his thigh. Now that the first fumbling urgency was over, he found himself longing to explore the delights of Jim’s body. Tentatively, he reached down and enclosed Jim’s sex in his hand, sliding the foreskin back and brushing his thumb over the head.

Jim sighed. “Oh, that’s…it’s bliss, Jamie. Please don’t stop.”

“Let me look at you.” Jamie urged Jim onto his back and, for the first time since they’d met, allowed his gaze to roam freely and boldly over the long, lean, marvellous body sprawled beside him. He kept one hand on Jim’s sex, still caressing, wanting to prolong Jim’s pleasure if he could, and laid the other hand on the flat belly, grazing the soft skin gently, moving up and brushing the tips of his fingers over one nipple, staring in fascination as the tender flesh grew hard beneath his touch. “I watched you too,” he confessed softly. “I was a bit jealous at first.”

“What on earth?” Jim laughed, his voice wobbling slightly as Jamie continued to stroke him. “Jealous of what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You were so sure of yourself. And so handsome and tall –“

“I’m a hair taller than you, old man.”

Jamie shrugged. “And you have a way about you. You inspire admiration. Effortlessly, too, because I started admiring you as well. And then I couldn’t stop watching you. I tried to hide it –“

“You did a dashed fine job of it. I’d no idea. But then perhaps I was too busy watching _you_.” Jim reached down and brushed back a stray lock of Jamie’s hair. “No, don’t stop. I was intimidated by you.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense.”

“It’s true. You can be quite imposing, you know. I’ve never seen men snap to attention as quickly as when you’re giving orders. But I reckoned that anyone so commanding must be rather fascinating, so I started to follow you like a puppy – oh no, don’t take your hand away. It feels so nice. I don’t suppose you noticed.”

Jamie smiled and resumed his caresses. “I noticed.”

“And it didn’t hurt that when you took your cap off, you were quite the best-looking man in the regiment.”

“Oh, come off it.” Jamie’s face grew warm.

“Have it your way. It’s true, no matter what you think.” Jim stroked the planes of Jamie’s face. “I’d like you to kiss me again. Don’t stop touching me, though.”

Jamie slid his body forward on the bed and bent to kiss Jim’s mouth. He felt Jim’s foot rubbing against his leg, then the length of his calf and thigh sliding closer until their legs were entwined. The room had been cold, colder still when Jamie had opened the window to air it, but now he was overheated, sweat prickling on the back of his neck and under his arms and between his thighs. He couldn’t stop, nor get enough of Jim’s mouth, the scent and taste of his skin – salty, slightly musky, but clean, so clean. He thought of the weeks he’d gone without bathing, the repellent odour of his own unwashed body and the filth of the trench, the stink of blood and waste and death that always seemed to cling to him, even after a relatively luxurious bath. Memory was all it took to invoke that foul reek once more, and he concentrated on the glorious fragrance and flavour of Jim’s body. _One fortnight – oh, God, how can I bear to be parted from him when this is over?_

They kissed deeply and ground their bodies together until Jim pulled away, breathless, his face flushed. “Hold still,” he whispered.

“What –“ Jamie began, and then gasped as Jim fondled his erect cock. “Oh, Jim –“ Half-dazed, he watched as Jim began to kiss his shoulders, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. He moved down and began to circle one nipple with the tip of his tongue, then dipped his head and sucked it delicately. “Oh, _Christ_ –“

“Shh,” Jim said, his mouth still surrounding Jamie’s nipple.

The ripple of motion and sensation made Jamie’s prick even harder. He moved his hand down to stroke, but Jim caught his hands and gently pressed them to the bed. He lifted his head and smiled. “Allow me.”

“What are you –“

“Hush.” Jim’s head moved lower until he was kissing Jamie’s belly, pressing his tongue against the cup of Jamie’s navel.

“Oh –“ Jamie arched upward, his body seeking relief against the exquisite torture Jim was visiting upon it. He cried aloud again as Jim’s tongue touched the slit of his cock and again, louder, as Jim’s mouth enveloped him in warmth and wetness. “Oh, please – please –“ Jim made a humming noise, and Jamie pressed himself deeper into Jim’s mouth, trying not to thrust and choke him, but nearly helpless to stop himself. He bit his lip and keened, and then couldn’t control himself and released with a hoarse cry. He lay back, his mouth parched, and panted for breath. Dimly, he saw Jim lift his head and swallow, a slightly wry expression crossing his face. “Oh, God – did you just –“

Jim wrinkled his nose. “It’s a bit…odd.” Suddenly he laughed. “I’ve never done that before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Goodness, for what? Nobody forced me.” Jim beamed at Jamie and released his wrists, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s bitter. A little salty. Strange.”

“I think I’m shocked. Or I would be if I had the strength.” Jamie lay flat on the bed, the sweat on his body beginning to chill in the damp breeze.

“Did you like it?” 

“Like it? Dear God, it was…exquisite.” Jamie held his arms out. “Come here. I’m too tired to move.”

“Shall we sleep?”

“I’d like to reciprocate,” Jamie murmured.

“Maybe in the morning,” Jim said with a yawn. “I think I might fall asleep on you if you tried now.” He pulled the bedclothes further down and crawled beneath them. “Come on. Let me tuck you in, Colonel.”

Jamie grinned and obliged, stretching languorously under the warm covers. “I’m on your side, am I not?”

“Yes, but I’m too lazy to switch sides now. Be a good chap and turn the light off.” He waited until Jamie turned the light out, turned round and fitted his back to Jamie’s chest. “Am I crowding you terribly?”

Jamie chuckled. “Yes, but I rather like it.” He slid his hand down Jim’s shoulder and arm, then fondled his bare hip and thigh, and finally rested his hand on Jim’s belly. “Have you got work in the morning? It must be dreadfully late.”

“No, I’ve got the whole week-end free.”

“Good.”

“I know I joked about being greedy….” Jim trailed off uncertainly.

“I don’t want to spend a moment more than I must away from you,” Jamie said, kissing Jim’s springy curls. “We’ll sort it out somehow.”

One of Jim’s hands clasped Jamie’s. “My dear, dear Jamie. I was hoping you’d say that.” His voice was thick with incipient sleep. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Jamie kissed Jim’s neck, his heart suddenly full of mingled emotion so complex it frightened him. Deliberately, he pushed away the knowledge that their time together was short. He would make the most of this fortnight. “So am I, Jim. So am I.”

He lay awake for some time, marvelling at the miracle of Jim’s body pressed against his, and finally fell asleep. For the first time in months, his slumber was peaceful and without dreams.

 

*

 

“I’ve taken the liberty of accepting an invitation on your behalf tonight. Lord Somerhill’s giving a small gathering in honour of his son Ronald – he was at Sandhurst, wasn’t he, Jamie? I thought you’d enjoy that.”

Jamie looked up from his artichoke bottoms stuffed with peas and dressed in a creamy sauce that lacked identifiable flavour. “It was a liberty, I’m afraid, especially as I’ve plans this evening.”

Margaret sighed. “I think Captain Nicholls can do without your company for one evening. Surely he has his own social life.”

“He does, and at the moment it includes me.” Jamie spoke sharply, causing his father to glance up at him over his newspaper. He pressed his lips together, conscious of the hostility that had bled into his voice, and composed himself. “After all, he’s my comrade in arms, Mother, and we’ve a great deal to talk about. Besides, I’ve gone to any number of luncheons and teas without him.”

“Only because he’s working,” she pointed out – correctly, Jamie acknowledged with irritation.

“Be that as it may, I’m perfectly capable of keeping my own social calendar.”

“Well, we’ve all been invited, so I thought it would be nice if we all went as a family.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Charles snapped, “we don’t have to do that, do we? Can’t think of a drearier evening, Somerhill puffing and blowing about Ronald’s extraordinary feats of heroism and eating bloody sardines on toast. That’s his idea of a party, you know, that and playing the bloody Victrola with that screeching rubbish they call music. Anyway, Ronald hasn’t won the damned Victoria Cross, has he? Maybe I’ll do a little puffing and blowing of my own.” He grinned at Jamie.

“It isn’t a competition,” Jamie sighed. “I’m sorry, I really can’t do it. You’ll have to pass on my best wishes to Lord Somerhill and Ronald.”

Margaret looked aghast. “But you were at Sandhurst together!”

“Yes, we were, and he was – and likely still is – a pompous, annoying, ridiculous braggart.” Jamie let his fork drop with an unnecessarily loud clatter. “Evidently it runs in the family. I don’t want to spend one of my last nights at home listening to him braying about the war, or any other subject.”

“You’re going.”

Jamie stared at his mother. “Sorry?”

“You heard what I said, young man. It’s all well and good to spend time with your friend, but quite honestly I think it’s a little too _much_ time.”

“And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” Jamie’s face grew hot. _Shut your mouth,_ he counselled himself angrily. _They don’t suspect anything. They can’t._

“What I mean is that his father makes bathtubs.”

Jamie was surprised into a laugh. “Is that so terrible?”

“She’s right, son,” Charles said, folding his paper and laying it beside his plate. 

“He’s a perfectly sweet young man,” Margaret said, “and I do understand that you share a – oh, what’s the word – camaraderie with him, but the war might end any day now, and you should be keeping company with your own sort.”

“The war’s ending? Are you receiving some secret despatches of which the rest of us are ignorant?”

Two bright blots of colour appeared on Margaret’s cheeks. “I think that’s quite enough impertinence for one day.”

Jamie sighed. “I’m sorry, Mother. I don’t mean to be unpleasant. But Jim is my friend. And he did save my life.”

“Look here, Jamie, she’s not saying that he’s not a solid chap. Plenty of solid chaps in the army. I had all sorts of friends in the war myself. But good Lord, what’s wrong with your old school chums?”

“Nothing, except that there are rather a lot fewer of them about lately.” Jamie longed to stand up and walk out, but he had to settle the matter without question.

“Ronald’s here,” Margaret said.

“We were never close, Mother. He was little more than an acquaintance.” An idea sparked. “Perhaps we could bring Jim along.”

“I don’t think he’d be comfortable. After all, he wouldn’t know anyone there, would he?”

“Ah. I see. Not quite good enough, you mean.” Jamie put his napkin on the table. “The son of a bathtub manufacturer isn’t quite up to spending an evening with the _crème de la crème_ , is he?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Charles demanded. “God’s sake, it’s just one bloody evening. We’ll all go, and there’s an end to it.” He shook his head. “Don’t you see, Jamie, it’s not just that he’s not your sort. You’ve got to start thinking about the future, get on with the business of living. A wife, a family – carrying on the name. Friends who are appropriate, son, who can help you along that road – that’s what’s needed now.”

Jamie frowned. “Well, the title’s going to Philip, not me. The Selkirk house goes to him, this house goes to him, all the land – surely you should be discussing this with him on his next leave.”

“That’s true, but if something were to happen to him –“

“Don’t say it,” Margaret said with a shudder.

Charles glanced at her. “If something were to happen, then everything would fall to you. And you need to be prepared for that.”

Jamie took his cigarettes from his pocket, then stuffed them back in again. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. I should marry just in case Philip dies? And going to this…whatever-it-is tonight will set my feet firmly upon the path of matrimonial bliss?” He shook his head. “Very well. I can’t fight both of you, can I?” He rose to his feet and inclined his head coldly. “Excuse me. I’ve got to cancel my engagement with Captain Nicholls.”

He stalked to the library and sat at the desk, glaring at the telephone, his skin prickling hot and cold. He’d been far too antagonistic, he knew, far too defensive. His parents knew nothing of his relationship with Jim; every morning he’d slipped into the house just before seven, and his parents never arose until eight or eight-thirty in the city. As far as he knew, none of the servants had said anything, and he had in fact received some conspiratorial grins and nods that he suspected would dissolve instantly had they known where he’d spent his evenings or the nature of the company he kept. 

That his parents’ objections were purely social would have been amusing if it weren’t all so bloody stupid. The world was embroiled in the deadliest and bloodiest war in history, and they wanted to make certain that Jamie married some debutante with a title and pots of money. _Christ_.

Jamie picked up the telephone and requested the War Office. Once the operator put him through, he pulled rank shamelessly. “This is Colonel James Stewart. I wish to speak to Captain James Nicholls at once.”

Minutes later, there was a burst of static on the other end of the wire, then Jim’s voice. “Jamie? Is that you, old man?”

“Hello, Jim.”

“This is a surprise! How did the ceremony go this morning? Was it all pomp and circumstance?”

“Actually, it was a bit anti-climactic. Took three minutes, and the King congratulated us and fled. Rather glad to have it over with.”

“Well, you can tell me all about it tonight. I’ve had Mrs. Taylor prepare a cold supper.”

“That’s the thing, Jim. I’m…I’m afraid I won’t be able to come this evening. My parents have roped me into an engagement, and they’re being quite difficult about letting me out of it.”

A short silence fell on the wire. “Ah, well…I see. Well, certainly, you’ve got to respect their wishes. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you stopping by afterward?”

“I can’t say.” Jamie rubbed his eyes. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right, old man.” Jamie heard Jim chuckle, but the light laugh was cut off abruptly. “I…maybe tomorrow night? You’ve only four nights left.”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

“Good. I’ll miss – it’s a shame you can’t come tonight, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven. Cheerio, Jim.”

“’Bye, Jamie.”

Jamie rang off and glared resentfully at the telephone. “God damn it,” he whispered.

 

*

 

“Leaving?” Jamie gaped at his mother. He saw a few heads turn toward them and lowered his voice. “You just got here – besides, you were the one who was so eager for this evening in the first place!”

“Well, we just wanted to get you settled, darling. And admit it – you’re having a rather nice time, aren’t you? I saw you dancing with Charlotte Thorpe. She’s a lovely girl. I expect you’ve a lot to discuss.” She darted forward and kissed his cheek. “Murchison will bring the motor-car back for you immediately, but I expect you’ll want to stay for another few hours. Have a wonderful time, Jamie.” She turned in a swirl of green chiffon and made her way toward Lord and Lady Somerhill.

Jamie watched in annoyance as his parents, who’d trapped him into this dull-as-tombs evening, leave blithely, not even sparing him a second glance. Like as not his father had insisted they leave and abandon him in the bargain. Sighing impatiently, he took a glass from a passing footman and drained it with a grimace. It was Champagne, sickeningly sweet, and he thought of the whiskey Jim would have poured for him by now, the now-familiar cosiness of his bedroom, the crisply ironed sheets and soft warm quilt of his bed, the lean economy of Jim’s body twined round his. He dropped into a nearby sofa and regarded the toe of his gleaming evening shoe in bitter silence.

“Jamie.”

Startled, Jamie looked up to see Charlotte Thorpe standing in front of him, sipping at a glass of Champagne, her blonde hair in perfect ringlets, her dress a slender, rippling column of pale-blue satin. “Hello, Charlotte.” He made to stand.

“Oh, don’t get up. I thought I’d join you if you don’t mind.” She sat beside him and demurely crossed her ankles, but not before showing a glimpse of pale-blue silk stocking that almost matched her satin shoes. “It’s always like this now.”

“Like what?” He’d chosen Charlotte to dance with because he’d been to school with her older brother Billy, and had known her since she’d worn short skirts and hair-ribbons and had dogged their steps relentlessly, threatening to tattle if they didn’t allow her to play with them. She’d been a little tyrant then; now she was affable and friendly and made no demands upon him, unlike some of the other girls present. Perhaps it was the dearth of eligible men, but some of them had been quite forward. Charlotte, on the other hand, had cheerfully said she had a beau in the Royal Navy but that wasn’t going to keep her from having a good time. 

“You know what – I saw your face. Sheer horror. All these women, chasing after men. You haven’t got a cigarette, have you?” Jamie produced his case, opened it, and held it out. Charlotte selected one, tapped it on the case, and waited for Jamie to light it. “Thanks. Don’t mind me if I suddenly thrust it into your hand – nice girls don’t smoke in public, and God forbid one of my parents’ friends should see me.”

Jamie smiled. “Aren’t you a nice girl, Charlie?”

“If you listen to my mother, I’m practically the Whore of Babylon, Jamie. I’ve half a mind to prove her right, too. What was I saying? Oh, parties. Yes, it’s always fifty women chasing after five men nowadays. I’m so glad you didn’t wear your dreary khaki. Awful colour, khaki. Not that it doesn’t lend distinction, but honestly, one would think you’d be terribly weary of looking at it, let alone wearing it.” Charlotte blew out a smoke ring. “What do you think of that?”

“Not bad,” Jamie said.

“Can’t wait until this bloody war’s over. I expect you feel the same way. Oh, God, here’s Ronald. Hello, Ronald,” Charlotte called with a wave. “Come and sit with us for a moment. Frightfully good music you’ve got, I must say. Jamie dances a marvellous Half-and-Half.”

“I’ve got a charming partner. Hello, Ronald,” Jamie said without pleasure. He’d been hoping to avoid Ronald Colborne all night, if possible. 

“’Lo, Jamie. You’re looking grand.” Ronald pulled up a dainty gilt chair and dropped into it. 

“So are you.” That was a rather large lie, Jamie reflected. Ronald had always been rather plump and pink in the face, looking like a freshly tubbed baby, but now he was pale, as if he’d been ill, and the plumpness had disappeared, leaving hollows in his cheeks and diminishing his pouter-pigeon chest. There were purple smudges beneath his eyes, and his body seemed to cave inward, as if he were guarding it against something.

“How long are you home?”

“Just another four days. Then back to the Somme. You?”

“I go back on the thirtieth. Huzzah.” Ronald smiled humourlessly. “Can’t remember where I’m going next. I was at Loos.”

Jamie shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I heard that was a rough one.”

Ronald nodded. Every trace of the arrogant boy he’d been had disappeared. He reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and withdrew his cigarette case. “I say, old boy, you haven’t got a pocket lighter, have you? I reckon there’s one about, but….” He shrugged, as if to indicate his helplessness.

Jamie lit Ronald’s cigarette. “It’s good to be home for a bit, isn’t it?” He smiled at Charlotte, who merely lifted an eyebrow.

“Good? Yes, I suppose it is. Mother and Father have had me scrabbling about like mad for a week. I feel bad saying no to them, but to tell you the truth, all I want to do is sleep.” The corners of Ronald’s mouth quirked up, then down. “For years.”

“Yes, I’ve been going through the same sort of thing myself.”

Ronald raised his shaking hand to his lips and inhaled. The end of the cigarette glowed like a coal in a fire. “Heard you won the V.C. – congratulations.”

This was not at all the Ronald Jamie knew. “Thank you.”

Charlotte frowned. “The V.C.?”

“The Victoria Cross,” Ronald explained. “Highest decoration one can get. It’s for extraordinary bravery.”

“Oh! Well done, Jamie.” Charlotte kissed Jamie’s cheek. “How did you get it?”

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t really want to –“

“Yes, well done,” Ronald said. “Could have used you at Loos. My whole company was exterminated. We had the numbers, at first, but it was an open field, and we walked right into a line of artillery. Guns, grenades, the lot. You wouldn’t believe it.”

Jamie pressed his lips together. _That’s what you think_.

“We used gas. First time, you know. And then some of my men – they couldn’t see properly, couldn’t breathe in the damn masks, so some of them took the masks off. Got hit by our own God-damned gas.” A short, strange laugh hiccupped from Ronald’s throat. “I think when I go back, I might kill myself.”

“Ronald —“ Jamie began gently.

“What did we think a battle was at Sandhurst, Jamie? Probably a day or two, maybe half a week at the outside? Not three fucking weeks, Jamie, with not a bloody inch of ground gained. Not with fifty thousand casualties.” Tears poured from Ronald’s eyes, but he seemed unaware of them. “I had a friend in the company – George Miller, an ordinary chap, a farrier in his old life. Had a wife in Sussex, and a baby. He volunteered, you see, because he wanted to protect his baby. I saw him die, his belly opened by a shell. And then the rats came – there was a family of rats that made a nest –“ Ronald covered his face with his hands. His shoulders heaved in silent sobs, and his cigarette, held between two palsied fingers, quivered ceaselessly.

Charlotte glanced uneasily at Jamie. “Ronald….” She put a hand on his shoulder.

The touch seemed to electrify Ronald. He leapt up. “Sorry. Sorry.” He dashed the tears from his face. “I’ll get another drink and then find some more music – maybe you’ll dance with me, Charlotte?” He stumbled away without waiting for a reply, leaving Jamie and Charlotte to sit in silence. 

Charlotte stubbed her cigarette out in her glass. “I think I’ve had enough,” she said with a sigh, “charming a partner as you are, Jamie. Will you walk me to my motor?”

“Certainly.” Jamie got to his feet and held a hand out for Charlotte. They bade Lord and Lady Somerhill a quick farewell, got their wraps, and headed outside. It was blessedly cool after the overheated drawing room, and a light rain was falling. Jamie escorted Charlotte to a smart white Sunbeam. He ushered her into the rear seat and held the door as the driver started the motor-car. “Send Billy my fond regards, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. He’ll be so glad I saw you.” Charlotte’s smile faltered. “Thanks for the dance. Jamie – is it really as bad as all that?”

It was on the tip of Jamie’s tongue to say something light-hearted and falsely gallant, to tell the lies he’d heard men telling women during the week and three days he’d been home, lies he’d told himself, but he hadn’t the heart for it any longer. He nodded.

“Rotten, buggery war,” Charlotte whispered. “Give me a kiss, Jamie.”

He kissed her cheek. She smelled like lilies.

“Come home safe.”

He closed the door and waved as the car drove off, then walked toward the Rolls-Royce where Murchison sat patiently. He got into the front passenger seat. “Hampstead, Murchison.”

 

*

 

“Shall I wait, sir?”

Jamie shook his head. “No. I may spend the night. I’ll get a tram home early in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.” Murchison opened his side of the door.

“No need.” Jamie got out of the car quickly, then caught a glimpse of Murchison’s face. His heart sank. “Murchison…do you remember when I raised the bar on the hurdles without telling you?”

“I do that, sir. That was Flintlock you were riding back then. You were just a wee scrap of a lad.”

“Yes.” Jamie hesitated. “You never told Mother and Father that I did it.”

“I didn’t see the harm, sir, once I realised you’d been jumping that bar for a month. You knew what you were about, that was certain.”

Jamie nodded. “I’d like to prevail upon you to…Murchison, please don’t tell them that I’ve come here. Tell them that I sent you home, that I’d be getting a lift with someone else.”

Murchison sighed. “I won’t say a word, sir.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “That girl, she was lovely, she was.”

For the first time Jamie felt the piercing sensation of guilt and shame. He felt as if his intentions were clearly written on his face, and he felt the weight of Murchison’s disapproval. “Yes,” he said softly. “Very lovely.” He felt his deceit, heavy as a cannon, resting on his heart. “Good night, Murchison.”

“Good night, sir.”

Jamie waited for the automobile to roll down the darkened street and then walked the short path to Jim’s door. He knocked quietly.

The door opened. Jim was in pyjamas and a bathrobe. “Jamie –“ A smile wreathed his face. “I thought you wouldn’t be able to come.”

For an answer, Jamie embraced him tightly.

 

*

 

They lay in bed, naked, sweating and spent. Jamie smoked a cigarette, watching the bluish haze drift out the open window. 

“I suppose you’d have to account for yourself eventually,” Jim ventured.

“It won’t happen again,” Jamie replied grimly. He’d only given Jim the bare bones of the squabble with his parents; he’d said nothing of their contempt for Jim’s social status. He’d never considered their snobbery, which probably meant he was a snob himself. But he’d been to war, where class counted for nothing. It was true that most of the officers were among the upper classes, but there were some promoted rankers who were damned fine officers, and besides, an officer was only as good as the men he commanded, not the other way round. Courage counted, and bloody-mindedness, and sheer luck. Class meant nothing. “I’m going to speak to them tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t be hard on them.”

Incredulous, Jamie glanced at Jim. “I think they deserve the rough edge of my tongue, frankly.”

“Try to see their side of things, Jamie. Both their sons are away, and now you’re home for a fortnight and they’re not seeing you as much as they’d like –“

Jamie gave a bitter chuckle. “I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong there, Jim. They haven’t changed their social schedule one jot. They’ve included me, but it comes down to them dragging me about like luggage.”

“They still love you. That was most obvious at dinner.”

 _Where they just scarcely tolerated your presence, Jim._ “Perhaps. Damned odd way of showing it, though.”

“Are you all right?” Jim traced his fingertips over Jamie’s forehead. “Your brow’s been knotted most of the night.”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Jamie exhaled a stream of smoke. “Well, I suppose I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about Ronald. He’s not the first man I’ve seen in that state. He was…haunted. No other way to put it, really.”

“Yes,” Jim murmured. “I’ve seen other fellows like that as well. It’s terrible. I don’t know why it happens to some men and not others.”

“They call it shell-shock at the front.”

“Apt.”

Jamie let out a long sigh. “Four more days.”

“I know. Only too well. I don’t want you to spend more time away from me. Is that awful of me?”

“Yes, and I adore it.” Jamie stubbed out his cigarette and turned to Jim to kiss him. He hooked one leg over Jim’s, pulling him closer. “I love it when you’re awful.”

“You’re rather awful yourself. I see lip-prints on your face.” Jim smiled. “Have you been unfaithful to me?”

“Do three dances and two pecks on the cheek count?”

Jim bit his lip, then pressed his index finger gently to Jamie’s mouth. “As long as no-one else kisses you the way I do, I suppose it’s all right.”

“Kiss me again. Remind me.”

“You are _wicked_ , Colonel.”

*

 

He’d never seen a spring morning quite like this one: a shower had washed the trees black and brightened the fragile pale-green buds at the tips of their branches. The air was fresh and clean; the sky was lilac, edged with gold. Jamie climbed out of the Rolls-Royce and drew in a few deep breaths, grateful that his last day in England was a beautiful one.

Murchison handed Jamie his kit bag. “There you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Murchison. Good-bye.” Jamie extended his hand.

“Good-bye, sir. God be with you.” Murchison doffed his cap and shook Jamie’s hand.

Jamie swung his bag over his shoulder and went into the station. Jim had promised to be there, and so he was, waiting beneath the large clock that read five-forty. He was spruce, smartly turned out in his regimentals, very different from the night before. They’d reveled in each other’s bodies, kissing, caressing, suckling, and thoroughly exploring a dozen different delightful pleasures before Jamie had to leave. They had been deliberately cheerful, but now Jamie saw that Jim’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.

He stopped in front of Jim and set his bag down. In the two weeks he’d been home, he had delayed all thoughts of their last moments together. He knew it would be upsetting, that it would weigh heavily upon both of them with the separation that would follow, but there had remained in him some ember of hope that they could obliterate grief and sorrow somehow, that they could celebrate life without succumbing to the possibility of death. Jamie had already endured his father’s silences, his mother’s tears. He had nearly wept himself, shocked at the depth of his unhappiness at their pain. And now he would have to take his leave of Jim, and there was no escaping the reality. “Jim,” he murmured.

“Here we are,” Jim said softly.

“Yes.” Jamie looked out at the platform, where the train already waited. “It was good of you to come.”

“I tried to join up again.”

Jamie frowned. Jim’s words seemed inexplicably garbled, as if he’d been speaking a foreign language. “What?”

“I tried to resume active duty. I was denied.” Jim opened his hands, turned them palm-upward, then closed them again.

“Why on earth – of course you were denied. You’re wounded.”

“It’s not that bad. They wouldn’t listen to me.” Jim struck his open palm with a fist. Tears gathered on his lashes.

“Jim, Jim….” Jamie grasped Jim’s hands. “For God’s sake, no. How can you even think of it?” 

“Put in a word, Jamie. I’d do anything – I’d be your orderly, if you wanted. Polish your boots, clean your pistol, bring your tea. I’d endure any suffering, I swear it. I thought I could bear up bravely, but I can’t. Don’t leave without me, Jamie. Put in a word for me.”

“I won’t. I tell you I won’t. Jim, you’re not thinking clearly.”

“I know it. I’m in a muddle –“ Jim bowed his head. “I don’t think the heart was meant to ache like this, Jamie.” When he looked up again, his face was tear-stained. “I’m so sorry. I’d resolved to be cheery, and I’m –“ He shook his head. 

If he started weeping, he’d never stop. Jamie bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. _My dear sweet Jim. I need you here. I need your letters and parcels and drawings. And I need your prayers. I must know you’re here, so that I have the strength to face whatever may come. I need to live for you._ “I’m coming back. Wait for me.”

The first boarding call sounded, and Jim mustered a smile. “Is that an oath?”

“A solemn oath.” Jamie returned the smile despite the gaping wound in his heart and picked up his bag. “Come on.”

They walked to the platform, minimally crowded; only a few soldiers and their families were clustered here and there, saying good-bye. Jamie handed his bag to the porter and turned to Jim. “Write.”

“Of course. Colonel.” Jim saluted and touched the ribbon on Jamie’s tunic. “Take care of yourself.”

“Mind that leg.”

“I will.” Jim hesitated, then embraced Jamie tightly.

Jamie’s throat ached. He clung to Jim, pressing close, not giving a damn who saw them. _How can I bear this? How?_ He drew a shaking breath, and spoke. “I love you.”

The whistle blew and the train gathered steam. Jim’s grasp tightened. “I love you. Dear, dear Jamie. I love you.”

They parted; their hands uncoupled. Jamie grasped the handrail and stepped aboard. He saluted, and Jim returned the salute. The wheels ground against the rails and began to move. 

Jim stayed rooted to the spot, and lifted his hand in farewell. His lips moved: _I love you._

Jamie raised his hand, and watched until Jim was lost from sight.

 

*


	8. If nothing happens 'til half past seven

_He’d scarcely come from leave and London_  
Still was carrying a leather case  
When he surprised headquarters pillbox  
And sat down sweating in the filthy place. 

\---Edmund Blunden, _The Welcome_

 

*

 

My dearest Jamie,

I write this letter scant hours from the moment we bade each other farewell on the platform, although I freely confess that already it seems that months have passed since then. To-day my work sits neglected; I’ve moved it from one side of my desk to another, but have not managed to progress much beyond that. I shall have to make up my unfinished tasks this week-end, which suits me well enough. I think time will find itself heavy upon my hands in the days and weeks to come.

Oh – such gloom! You have my most profound apologies. I do not want the first letter you receive after your all-too-brief home leave to be an unhappy one. On the contrary, what I wish to say is this: For as long as I live, I shall never forget your last words to me this morning. Indeed, I intend to cherish them forever, and what’s more, I expect – nay, I demand to hear them again when you return home to stay. Until that happy day should arrive, know that you are ever in my thoughts and prayers.

I can’t write anymore to-day, Jamie. Think of me.

Jim

 

*

 

The birds and beasts, eminently sensible creatures that they were, had fled the northern portion of the Bois de Troncs; only men remained, hell-bent on destroying each other. They huddled in the trenches that limned the wood’s narrow valley and emerged in and out of endless passages of time, shooting, shelling, striking with bayonets, listening to gunfire and the drone of aeroplanes and the screams of the wounded and the dying. 

_Hold fast to the last man._

Jamie rested his head against a sandbag and savoured the last cigarette he would likely have for weeks. He was the only senior officer around for miles, and he’d collected a small – a _very_ small – battalion command consisting of one young captain and three lieutenants, all of whom appeared to be wet behind the ears, terrified, and confused. He’d laid out their strategy, ordered the word passed, and now took a moment’s respite in the stinking, muddy trench where he and several others had taken refuge during a shelling, lifting his eyes as another aeroplane flew overhead, strafing the Germans’ observational balloons.

He put his hand inside his tunic and withdrew Jim’s latest missive that had come with the customary packet of useful and amusing items. Unfolding it one-handed, he read the neatly penned letter and felt a pang of regret. He hadn’t had the opportunity to write in nearly a month; there had been snatches of available time, but no way to get a letter through the lines. Nor had he received anything for the same amount of time. He’d received some two dozen letters from Jim in the year and few months since his leave, and he’d read them all to shreds except for the first short note Jim had written the day he’d left. That one was in his kit bag, folded tightly and wrapped in a bit of oilskin. If he died, anyone who found it wouldn’t think much of the contents, but they meant everything in the world to Jamie. He’d memorised every word. If he did make it home alive, he’d take every measure to preserve it forever.

This letter, though, was as agreeably cheery as most of Jim’s missives – or at least it was on the surface. A hint of worry and fear had permeated Jim’s letters of late, and Jamie supposed it was no wonder. He could only imagine the lurid reports in the newspapers, written by correspondents sent to observe and then convey the horrors of war. One such fellow had travelled with his company for a month and had left a far different man than the affable soul he’d been at the start of his journey – his eyes were as haunted as any soldier’s. Jamie had tried to be sympathetic, but he’d seen too much death and pain to expend much sympathy for a man who didn’t have to stare his own mortality in the face day after exhausting day, and who was headed back to London, to comfort and home, to write up a story that couldn’t possibly tell the whole truth.

Jamie brushed his filthy hair from his forehead with an even filthier hand. The day was overcast, and night would descend shortly, bringing some relief from the barrage. The Germans wouldn’t fight what they couldn’t see. He re-read a passage about Pansy’s debutante party: extravagant and silly, according to Jim, and he’d quite drowned in a sea of girls in white gowns. A pity there weren’t men enough to go round. 

One of the young lieutenants in the trench with him touched his arm. “Colonel.”

Startled, Jamie glared at the young man. “What is it?”

“The guns have stopped, sir.”

Jamie listened to the soft susurration of wind through the heavy summer leaves and frowned. “So they have. Early, isn’t it?” He stuffed the letter back into his tunic and pulled his field glasses from a pocket. “Stopping for the night, or the calm before the storm, I wonder? You have the watch arranged, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Two-hour rotations.”

“Good.” Jamie moved to the fire step, lifted his head carefully, and squinted through the field glasses. “It’s a bit early for – “ He stopped, his breath gone.

A column of grey-clad men advanced toward the trenches, silent and stealthy.

“STAND TO!” Jamie bellowed, drawing his pistol and dropping below the ridge of earthworks. He peered over again and shot, fiercely glad when one of the column dropped. 

The men scrambled into action, and all too soon the air was filled with the roar of gunfire and explosives. The young lieutenant next to Jamie fumbled with his bayonet, struggling to fix it into his rifle. The evening seemed to grow darker with astonishing rapidity. It would give cover to the advancing column, but they would have trouble telling friend from foe, and that could be an advantage. 

Jamie turned toward Howards, the captain in their unit. “There’s a choke point of trees about fifty yards to the west – they’re all filtering through it. If we close it up, we can trap them. Keep a fair distance and tighten the line at once. Pass the word. Hurry!”

The captain nodded and ran, slipping through the mud, down the length of the trench.

Jamie wheeled on the young lieutenant. “Christ’s sake, pull yourself together! Get that bayonet fixed now!” He unslung his own rifle and demonstrated. “Like this. Clear?”

The lieutenant nodded, and managed to secure his bayonet. “I’ve never –“ He clamped a hand over his mouth, pivoted on one heel, leaned over, and vomited into the mud.

Jamie sighed, took a deep breath, and shouted at the top of his lungs. “OVER THE TOP, LADS!”

Soldiers scrambled up onto the fire step and heaved themselves over the tops of the trenches, weapons in hand, slipping on the muddy earth decimated by shooting and shells. Jamie joined them, keeping his eyes fixed on the column, and took his men further west, slowly advancing toward the column and keeping the German soldiers bottled up. Together, he and his men charged into the fray, aiming in the blinding flashes of explosives, and then hurling himself forward with his bayonet, stabbing and slashing and tearing through flesh. He would not permit himself to think of those he killed as men; they were the enemy, and if he was to survive, the enemy must die. He howled as he drove his bayonet into another body, and felled it, and then pulled it free, feeling a hot splash of blood on his face and hands.

After some time, the German column had diminished, and those remaining retreated, falling back into the woods and disappearing into the darkness. Jamie and his company staggered back into the trenches, fewer in number than before, but – tonight, at least – victorious.

Jamie leaned against the sandbags and struggled for breath. He wiped the blood from his eyes and watched silently as men began dragging in the wounded. He moved toward two rankers who carried a limp body between them – the young lieutenant who’d had such trouble with his bayonet. “Fell at the last minute, sir,” one of the rankers said. “Shot from the woods. Died on the way.”

“We can’t keep him down here,” Jamie replied wearily. “What was his name?”

“Parks, sir. Lieutenant Parks.”

Jamie nodded. “God rest his soul. You – see if you can find my orderly. Waterson’s his name. And whoever’s in charge of registration.” He moved toward the young lieutenant’s body and looked at the still, white face scarcely visible in the feeble moonlight. How old had he been? Eighteen? Twenty, at most? 

“Nice lad,” the remaining ranker said. “Bit toffee-nosed, but nice.”

Jamie closed the staring eyes. “What day is it?”

“It’s July thirteenth, sir. The fourteenth now, I reckon.”

“Christ almighty,” Jamie said softly. They’d held this Godforsaken patch of ground for three weeks now. It seemed an interminable time. He would be twenty-nine in less than a week. He wondered if he’d make it to his thirtieth birthday – or indeed, to his twenty-ninth. 

He touched his tunic, where Jim’s letter reposed, for luck.

 

*

 

My dearest Jamie,

You may need to read this letter at intervals, for I’ve quite a lot to tell you. Most importantly, I hope that this reaches you in time for Christmas – I think I’ve timed it correctly, but I know letters and other post can go astray. I do hope, though! You’ll find the enclosed parcel more silly than not – I hope you followed the instructions and opened it first, because I intend to explain it to you. If not, please do that now, whilst I wait. Have you done it? Splendid, I knew you could follow orders as well as give them. First of all, the stocking is from Pansy, with best wishes for a very happy Christmas. I asked her to knit a stocking for you as she’s rather a dab hand with knitting needles – she made that woollen scarf for you last year, you may recall – but I swear, upon my honour, I didn’t ask her to make it of red and white stripes! I thought she’d manage a sober affair of khaki, an entirely appropriate colour for a soldier. It was rather droll, though, so I didn’t scold her too much.

I do hope you liked the little gifts. Pansy wanted to send all sorts of bulky and extravagant things, but I explained to her that your orderly was not a dray-horse and could not be expected to haul around trunks, and finally persuaded her to contain her inclination to excess. She’s been on a buying frenzy since moving into the flat with her friend Beatrice. Last week she sent a ham to one of her beaux in France. A ham, I ask you! How she managed that I’ve no idea. Be ever so grateful you didn’t receive an entire salmon, old man. In any case, the playing-cards are for long and restless nights, the socks (not red and white, you will please observe) are rather dull, I admit, but practical – _res ipsa loquitur_ , the sugar mice and chocolates are to preserve your sweet disposition, and the coffee and tea are for when the sugar mice and chocolates run out or simply fail to do the trick.

Of course Christmas will be a sad occasion. Mother and Dad have already decided to cancel their traditional Christmas Day party as it doesn’t seem right to revel when so many of our lads can’t celebrate properly. Besides, home isn’t a pleasant place lately; my father, for reasons best known to himself, is in a fearful wax about Ireland and Home Rule, and my poor mother doesn’t dare to say a word. I visited for Sunday dinner a few weeks ago and listened to him rattle on about it until I got quite impatient and asked him if the Irish had stopped buying his bathtubs. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me, he was so angry. Truly I didn’t mean to provoke him – much – but he will go on and forces us all to listen. My heart aches for my mother, who still has family in Ireland, but Father has forbidden her to correspond with them.

For my part, I shouldn’t think I will be able to celebrate at all. I shall save it all up for your homecoming. Talking of homecomings, how lucky your brother is to have a furlough for Christmas! I received the kindest note and invitation from your mother, wishing me a happy Christmas and asking me to pay a call on her and to meet your brother. I must say I’m most curious, simply because of what you’ve told me of him, and I’m quite looking forward to meeting him in the flesh.

Christmas at the War Office is a somewhat dreary prospect as well, though some hardy soul has taken pains to ensure that the Christmas spirit doesn’t pass us by altogether. Some one, I don’t know who, has brought in a tree and decorated it with scraps of tinsel and ribbon and cotton-wool, and Captain Harte has lugged a gramophone in along with a dozen or so records, but the thing skips and scratches abominably, and poor Enrico Caruso sounds as if he has a terrible case of hiccoughs.

But how trifling these complaints are. I know you will chide me and that you told me not to withhold anything to spare you, but I must tell you what I saw yesterday. Colonel McCarthy assembled two or three dozen of us and had us convene for a film. I couldn’t think why, unless it was more Christmas absurdity. But what he showed us, Jamie – it was a film someone had taken at the front in France, and I am both horrified and humbled by what I saw and because I now know what you must endure every day. It wasn’t a news-reel, Jamie – I don’t think this sort of thing would be shown to moving-picture audiences. I saw ‘no-man’s land’ for the first time, all barbed wire and torn earth and smoke. I saw men desolate, starving, mortally wounded, and finally, bodies stacked like firewood. I saw a trench fire-bombed and imagined the dying screams of the poor soldiers trapped inside. 

And though I’ve no idea where the film was recorded, I looked for you. I know that’s absurd – how many hundreds of thousands of men are fighting this war? But I did, nonetheless, hoping and fearing at once. And the effect on some of the fellows there – some had to leave, they were so overcome, and I saw more than one man crying silently, but unashamedly. It has not been so long since some of them were in the trenches themselves, suffering and struggling to survive in that terrible, terrible devastation. Oh, Jamie, if I were only with you! I could not hope to remove your sorrows and fears, but surely a burden shared is a burden diminished – and yet I understand why I was refused re-enlistment. If my leg played up during a shelling, or a shooting, I should be utterly helpless. And yet there is a lingering resentment in my heart, the core of which is a desire to be near to you, my dear friend. 

1917 has been a very hard year for everyone, Jamie. I had hoped to see you at least once; it was the bitterest disappointment to learn that your home leave had been cancelled. But my petty concerns are nothing when compared with the very real agony you must suffer daily, and I ask your forgiveness. Upon re-reading this letter I see it is increasingly full of gloom, and I had very firmly resolved not to send you gloomy letters, but this time I shall leave it. Why? I can’t say. My disposition is not ordinarily a sour one, and yet I feel compelled to share the truth of my heart with you.

I have been attending daily Mass (there are contradictions and complications herein that I must disentangle, I know, but good Lord, I’ve been dreary enough for one letter) and I pray that 1918 will see the end of this horrifying war and that you will come home. When I pray for these two things, I fervently hope it is not too selfish, too much to ask, that your bravery and goodness will not go unrewarded. Hold fast, Jamie, and keep yourself safe until the guns fall silent at last. My heart, and every prayer I can muster, goes with you.

Yours,

Jim

A postscript, written some hours after this letter: I have exchanged letters with Albert Narracott, the boy who sold Joey to me. He enlisted, as I expected, and was most kind and sympathetic when I relayed to him the circumstances of the loss of our mounts. Though it pains me to think of those wonderful creatures in enemy hands, I pray that their spirit will carry them through misfortune. And I thought it quite extraordinary that we should cross paths via post after all this time. Evidently he’d received the letter and drawings I’d sent him and searched for me – and now he’s abroad and I’m home. Strange, is it not?

I’m so sorry for the tone of this. I promise my next correspondence will be much cheerier.

J

 

*

 

Jamie knew his feet were dragging on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust that travelled with him as he moved, but he couldn’t bring himself to a livelier march. Dysentery had hit the company hard, killed several men, and left him feeling unmanned and fragile, though he was almost certain he was over the worst of it. Still, better to be sick in the heat of summer rather than in the unmerciful frost of winter – so much pleasanter to drop one’s trousers every twenty minutes in warm weather.

Jamie, as the senior officer, should have had a mount, but all the available horses were dragging guns and carts, limbers and the field-kitchen. The infantry followed behind in a snaking, slow column. The march was a silent one, for the most part; there was muttered conversation here and there, but most men hadn’t the strength for more than picking up one foot and setting it in front of the other. They walked as if asleep, lurching along and shuffling their feet, uniforms dusty and heads bent in their basin helmets. There was a hospital four miles ahead at the end of the rail line, or so they’d been told – nobody knew if it had been bombed to shards, since the fighting along the railway had been fierce for the past few days, and reports were that most of the Gordonstoun Highlanders and the Flintshire Fusiliers had been decimated in skirmish after skirmish.

As he walked, Jamie took out Jim’s latest letter and read it. Jim had made good on his promise to stay cheery since his unhappy Christmas letter, and although Jamie had urged him to write in whatever mood took him, he’d refused, insisting that Jamie had plenty to endure without moaning and groaning from England. The truth was that Jamie would have cherished – and did in fact cherish – any letter from Jim, not just the cheerful ones. Jim’s letters were his bulwark of sanity. When the constant barrage of shelling and gunfire ceased for moments or days or a week and Jamie assessed the carnage that followed, seeing bodies blown to shreds, bodies intact, men wounded and crying feebly for their mothers, it was the thought of Jim’s soft voice, his tall, lean body, his sweet and sunny disposition, that kept Jamie from giving up. 

He had seen it before – men who simply sat down, or lay upon the duckboards in the trenches, and faded away. Their bodies lived on for a while, moved and breathed and even fired their weapons, but they were dead, and the guns found their mark and ended things for good, and their dead eyes, at the very end, always brimmed with relief. It would be easy to give up, to let the maelstrom take him, but Jim waited for him in England; James Riordan Augustine Nicholls was Jamie’s light and salvation at the end of this hellish, bleak corridor.

Evening was falling, bringing with it a pleasantly cool breeze from the Marne, not far away. Jamie strained for the last few words of Jim’s letter, then carefully tucked it back into his tunic. There would be time, he hoped, once they reached the hospital, for a respite, time to get his strength back and to write Jim. 

He glanced up and squinted against the setting sun. There was a train churning toward them some distance away – they were on a flat expanse of land, surrounded by barley fields, and the length was tricky to gauge. A quarter mile at most, though, and they were no more than a mile from their destination.

“Looks like it’s stopping, sir,” said a young private trudging beside Jamie.

“In the middle of nowhere? Doesn’t seem likely.” Jamie shaded his eyes with a hand and peered at the train. Indeed, the smoke rose from its stack in a fairly straight column rather than being blown back, and its speed was diminishing as it drew closer and closer. Jamie frowned, then shouted, “Halt!”

The company stumbled to a halt, and Jamie, fully alert despite the exhaustion of his body and spirit, strode forward, then froze. The train had stopped, and soldiers were pouring out – grey-uniformed German soldiers.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” Jamie whispered, then raised his voice. “Right flank, quick march! Get into the bloody field, lads, both sides! On your bellies!”

The roar of gunfire and the screams of whistling shells shattered the early twilight calm as the Germans, fresh, healthy, and ready for a fight, advanced mercilessly on the decimated British battalion. With no trenches for retreat or shelter, combat soon turned close, hand-to-hand and bloody. The barley fields on either side of the tracks were trampled down, and all too soon the air was filled with the smell of blood and waste, gunpowder smoke and sundered earth, and the terrible sound of men screaming.

Jamie crawled on his belly next to the young private who’d pointed out the train. The private was crying; he’d taken a bullet in the arm and was trying to stanch the blood as he crawled, but it poured through his fingers with frightening speed, and at last he curled up and whimpered in pain.

“Get up, lad,” Jamie hissed. “Come on, damn you, get up! Don’t lose heart now – there’s a hospital just a little ways off—“

“I can’t,” the boy moaned. “I can’t, sir. Oh, God almighty, it hurts, it hurts –“

Jamie looked desperately around, seeing little but the golden stalks of barley and the occasional burst of fire. “Come on,” he whispered. “We’ll retreat a bit. I’ll get the ambulances to find you – God willing they’ll be along soon enough, with the hospital close.” _And if it hasn’t been destroyed._

“Don’t leave me!” The lad clutched at Jamie’s sleeve. “Don’t –“

“Shh!” Jamie heard a rustling noise behind him and looked over his shoulder. A German soldier, no more than twenty, stood staring down at them, his expression a mingling of terror and stunned surprise. Jamie rolled on his back and held one hand up, feeling for his pistol with his other. “Wait,” he said. His German escaped him altogether.

The young soldier held his bayoneted rifle uneasily, as if it were about to bite him. All at once he raised it above his head and gave a shriek.

“No!” Jamie cried, and drew his pistol, but as he fired, the bayonet arced downward and drove into his side. He gasped in shock and agony, and screamed as the soldier’s body toppled onto his, driving the blade deep.

The dead man’s weight crushed the breath from his body, and he felt the blade inside him, a searing, excruciating pain that seemed to split him in two. He opened his mouth to scream again, but no sound emerged but a whistling gasp like a teakettle gathering steam. The pain tore at him with sharp teeth, and his vision dimmed. 

_Jim, come and find me. It hurts._

“Sir? Colonel Stewart?”

 

*

 

Dearest Jamie,

This will be just a short letter as I’m on my luncheon hour – in fact, I’m writing this in a notebook on the tram on the way back to my office, which accounts for the terrible penmanship – I’m sorry for that! I’ve just had the most extraordinary meeting, though, and wanted to tell you about it, as well as wish you felicitations of the day. Thirty years old! Do you feel terribly wise now? I should think you must – I seem to recall thinking that when I reached thirty, I would be a veritable Solomon, but here I am, just three years on your heels, and I don’t think I’ve even begun to approach anything like wisdom. At any rate, I am sending you a birthday packet with the usual trifles and a rather good book I read this spring.

Which brings me to the other topic of this letter. (wasn’t that a graceful segue? I thought so) It’s like this, Jamie: I fell into conversation with one of the chaps at the office whose uncle owns a publishing house here in London, and it seems the fellow believes that there will be a great surge of literature following the war – apparently there always is – and he’ll be seeking editors. I thought the attitude was more than a trifle cynical, but I have been looking for something to do once the war ends – soon, please God – and this might be just the ticket. What do you think? So, to-day I dashed off to meet him and found the place awfully congenial, and he was quite pleasant, not at all the cigar-chewing brusque sort I’d pictured, and he gave me an unedited or ‘raw’ manuscript, told me to have at it and bring it back next week, and he’d make a judgment from there. 

I’m rather excited about it, more so because it may happen soon. There are rumours of talks, Jamie, and the possibility of a cease-fire, or better yet, an armistice, has me positively over the moon. That you might come home, that I might see you soon – I cannot tell you how joyful I am at the thought. I’m doing my best to contain myself – and since I haven’t received a letter from you yet that I might reply, am clearly not succeeding. But can you blame me? On that score, I gather you haven’t had time to write, so please don’t take this as a chastisement. Truly, I’m not impatient at all. (Did that ring with the utmost sincerity? No, I thought not. Picture me instead tapping my foot and drumming my fingers – that’s a far more accurate portrait of the way things stand here)

London is beastly hot and smells abominable, and I have fallen in love with it, inasmuch as I am already in love and thought I hadn’t any more room in my heart. But the city is a lively and persuasive mistress, Jamie, and I hope that when you return you can show me the London you know and love, for I know you spent a great deal of time here as a youth. To-night some of the chaps and I are going to the moving pictures, one of those nonsensical Wild Western pictures where the cowboy rescues the fair damsel from a swiftly moving train at the imminent risk of his own life. Why the damsel is incapable of simply rolling off the railway tracks is a mystery that strains the limits of human imagination, but there you have it.

I hope to get this in the afternoon post, so I shall end here, as my tram stop is approaching, and await your next letter. As always, you have the deepest regard and everlasting affection from your

Jim

 

*


	9. Dawn's one star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already, please have a look at the beautiful manip that **Sithdragn** created for my story [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/455001), and please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoy it - artists love feedback too!

_In the grey summer garden I shall find you  
With day-break and the morning hills behind you.  
There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;  
And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.  
Not from the past you’ll come, but from that deep  
Where beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:  
And I shall know the sense of life re-born  
From dreams into the mystery of morn  
Where gloom and brightness meet._

\---Siegfried Sassoon, _Idyll_

 

*

 

At times he floated, winking in and out of consciousness like a firefly’s tiny light in an indigo gloaming wood. The sensations that filtered through the haze were muted; noises were the gentlest blur of sound, the harsh daylight glare was diffused, and the pain was bearable. And then he surfaced, and the pain crashed into him and then crushed him, heavy, liquid, suffocating him, and he thrashed against it, wanting to claw the agony out of his body. He fought against the arms that pinned him down, the enemy voices that shouted at him. He was back in the trench, in the mud and slime and cold, and he cried out against the swords impaling his flesh.

_\--- Hold him._

_\---Delirious._

_\--- Be still! You’ll re-open the wound!_

_\--- You mustn’t touch the dressing._

_\--- Morphia. Secure his arms._

He breathed in quick, short gasps, struggling against the strong arms that held him down. The pain swelled, monstrous, blotting out his voice and his breath and his feeble writhing, and drove him into the darkness once more.

 

*

 

Slowly, surfacing through the pain, he opened his eyes in the darkness to stifling heat and dampness and a ghostly chorus of groaning and weeping. The earth moved round his bed, dipping and rolling, and he heard a deep, steady thrum beneath the crying voices. He wet parched lips and tried to speak, but only a rusty croak emerged, low and all but inaudible. Frightened, he fell silent, listening to the wailing and moaning around him. He could see nothing, nothing at all, and wondered if he was blind. When he tried to bring his hands to his face to rub at his eyes, he found he could not move them. 

Terror clutched at his heart. “Where am I?” he asked, but the question was no more than a whisper, a bit of milkweed carried off by the wind. Again he attempted to lift his hands and failed. They were restrained, tied on each side of his body. He yanked them up sharply, and the pain blossomed blood-red inside him and hooked at his flesh and tore. He keened in a soft voice; he was a prisoner again, and the groans and weeping all round him were of his men, his cavalry detachment, his fellow prisoners, and they would all die, and he would watch.

No. Jim had come, and Jim had freed him, and been shot, but they’d escaped. But then why was he still bound? Why was it so dark and so very hot, and where did the cries come from?

“Jim?”

Where was Jim? Why had he left?

“Let me out,” he begged, but softly, so the others wouldn’t hear and think him cowardly. “Let me out.” 

The floor beneath him lurched, and he felt sick. He tried to sit up, to see even the faintest light in the darkness, but the pain hammered a silver spike into his belly, and he let out a gasping cry and plunged back into insensibility.

 

*

 

“Colonel Stewart?”

He heard the voice, but failed to connect it with himself. He drifted painlessly, comfortable and cool. The quiet was blissful, and there was a smell like strong soap, not unpleasant.

“Colonel Stewart, can you hear me?” A soft hand touched his shoulder. “You’re at St. Thomas hospital in Kent, Colonel. We’ve sent word to your parents. They telegraphed that they would arrive tomorrow.”

England? How had that happened? He opened his eyes and saw a blue and white blur.

“Quiet and rest is what’s needed now.”

 _Jim!_ If Jamie was in England, so too must Jim be. He spoke Jim’s name, but it spilled from his mouth in a guttural rasp so unlike his natural speaking voice it frightened him into silence. What had they done to him?

“It’s only the morphia that makes you a bit slow, Colonel. No need to be afraid.” The hand rested on his brow, warm and dry. “Sleep now.”

He tried again. _Tell Jim_ , he wanted to say, but his lips and tongue refused to obey his brain. 

“It’s to help with the pain, Colonel. We’ll wean you away from it soon enough. Not to worry.”

Jamie was tired, too tired to acknowledge the voice, kind and reassuring as it seemed. He felt a throbbing in his belly, but it hardly mattered; he was comfortable. If only he could tell the voice to speak to Jim. He was in England. He was home.

“Now, now,” the voice said, gentle, but firm, like the heather-burr of his childhood nanny. “Time to sleep. Rest and heal.”

 _Rest and heal._ Even those words were soothing. He let them carry him along, down a velvety well of blackness into warmth and comfort, and at last he drifted upon the incoming tide of slumber.

 

*

 

He carried Jim through the green field of corn that grew high overhead. Jim was bleeding, not only from his leg but from his chest and his mouth as well. As Jamie carried him (but not over his shoulders; instead cradling him in his arms, as he might a small child) the blood bubbled from his lips and pooled on his uniform and poured itself onto the ground, soaking it, turning the earth to a horrifying red mud that sucked at Jamie’s boots, clinging and slippery, threatening to drag him down. Overhead an aeroplane circled relentlessly, searching for them, and the dark sky began to fade as the sun crept over the horizon. The aeroplane pilot would see movement in the corn and the bright blood in the field of green, and gun them down where they stood. Jim, in his arms, stirred and cried out in pain and misery, and Jamie was rooted to the spot, afraid to take another step, but if he stopped, Jim would die. Above him, the aeroplane droned closer and closer, roaring in his ears.

“Jamie!”

He opened his eyes to see his parents standing over him. They were dressed in summer travelling clothes, wearing identical expressions of anxiety, and for the first time, he noticed how worn and taut they appeared, far older than he remembered.

“A bad dream, I expect,” Margaret said quietly.

Jamie blinked, utterly confused. “Mummy,” he whispered.

“Oh, darling. Darling.” Margaret leant down and embraced him, and automatically, Jamie’s arms wound round her neck. He inhaled her flowery scent and rested his face against her shoulder. She grasped him tightly and held on. “My sweet boy.” Her voice was choked with weeping.

With a tremulous hand, Jamie reached out toward his father, and felt his hand gripped gently. With his free hand, Charles stroked Jamie’s hair over and over. Jamie looked up and saw his father’s eyes fill with tears. Distantly amazed, for he hadn’t ever seen his father weep, nor had he this much affection lavished upon him since he was a very tiny child indeed, he met Charles’ gaze and tried to smile.

After a few moments, they drew away. Charles blew his nose vigorously and Margaret dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, dear, I’m in a state,” Margaret said. “How are you feeling, darling?”

“Better than before,” Jamie said, vaguely appalled at how weak his voice was. “I reckon they’ve got me drugged to the gills.”

“You need the medicine, Jamie,” his mother said. “You must heal.”

“Where am I?”

“St. Thomas hospital in Kent. The London hospitals are so crowded, I’m afraid this was the best they could do. Apparently the hospital ships brought record numbers last week.”

St. Thomas. He vaguely recalled someone telling him that before. “How long will I be here?”

“Just a few more weeks,” Charles boomed in an unnecessarily loud voice. Margaret wheeled on him, a finger to her lips. “Sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “A few more weeks, lad, ‘til the doctors feel it’s safe to move you. You’re healing nicely, they say.”

“What happened?”

Margaret and Charles exchanged a glance. “Darling,” Margaret faltered, “don’t you remember?”

Jamie would have laughed had he the strength. He managed to lift himself to his elbows. “I got stabbed. I remember that. I mean what’s wrong with me?”

“Ah,” Charles said. “Well, a punctured tummy, obviously, and the bayonet hit your intestines. Seems they took some of them out and stitched them back together again. Marvellous stuff!”

Margaret looked faintly green. “Oh, don’t talk about it.”

“And then you got an infection, they tell us,” Charles said blithely, ignoring Margaret. “Had to wait that out a bit in France – they couldn’t move you. It was chancy for a while, but you pulled through all right, thank God.”

Jamie frowned. “How long…how long since it happened? Since I was stabbed?”

“Five weeks.”

Shocked, Jamie collapsed back onto the pillow and winced as a throbbing pain seared itself into his belly. “Five weeks?” He hadn’t marked the passage of time at all; he’d simply slipped in and out of a nightmare daze, surfacing and sinking back endlessly. He thought back to the attack. It had been July, early July. Now it would be nearly mid-August. “It’s still infected?”

“Clearing up nicely, they said.”

“Does Jim know?”

“Jim?” Margaret frowned. “Oh! Captain Nicholls. I’ve no idea, dear. Would you like me to write him?”

“Yes.” Jamie clutched at his mother’s arm. “No. Telephone. Mummy, telephone him. He’s at the War Office in London. Whitehall.”

“All right, darling.” Margaret stroked his hair. “If you want me to, I will.”

“Yes. Please. Straight away. Please.”

“I will, darling. I will. Don’t worry. Rest now.” She turned to Charles. “We’ve worn him out.”

Charles nodded. “We’ll leave you for tonight, lad. Get some sleep.”

Jamie wanted to protest – it seems he’d done nothing _but_ sleep for the past month and then some – but a weight of fatigue pressed upon his chest, and he could scarcely muster the strength to nod. “Come back?” He wanted to remind them to call Jim, but he was afraid they’d be angry. They didn’t like him fraternizing with Jim. They thought he was common. They were wrong, but he hadn’t the resources to argue. For now, he craved their approbation.

“We will, lad.” Charles’ voice resonated warmly in Jamie’s ear. “By God, it’s good to have you home.”

 _Home._ Not how he would have chosen to arrive, but no matter. “Good-bye.” He closed his eyes again. He felt another gentle touch, a caress against his cheek, and drifted.

For a moment he recalled his dream, but now he reassured himself. _Jim is safe. He’s home. Safe._

It was enough to soothe him. He slept once more.

 

*

 

War had shaped him into a creature on perpetual alert, for the slightest noise might signal danger, and so when the soft murmuring beside his bed began, he registered it at once, but hadn’t the strength to respond. He lay silent, his battered body tense yet still half-asleep, waiting for the murmuring’s cessation and the possibility of violence to follow. The whispering went on and on, a repeating sort of chant in a gentle cadence, and by and by it calmed him and his body relaxed again. The bed beneath him was comfortable, the sheets smelled clean, and the wound ached, though not badly. Jamie concentrated on the quiet rhythm of the murmuring until he was able to distinguish one word from another.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena….”

Gradually – although the realisation was slow, so slow, as if he were swimming upwards through miles and miles of warm water – Jamie recognised the voice of the speaker. Only then did he open his eyes.

Jim sat beside his bed, his head bowed, his hair golden in the waning daylight spilling through the window, his lips moving as he prayed over a string of rosary beads, his graceful fingers sliding along each bead as he finished one prayer of his litany and began another. Like Jamie’s parents, Jim looked tired and strained and distraught with worry. He, too, looked older than he had a year and a half ago. Jamie supposed they all did.

 _A year and a half,_ he thought. Dear God, it had been that long, and Jim’s letters had sustained him. Day after day of endless plodding and terrifying destruction, deceptive lulls and explosive terror, of shattered limbs and souls and grief and sorrow for the loss of comrades. The filth and disease of the trenches, the earsplitting screams of shelling, the thunder of explosions, the cries of the sick, the wounded, the dying. Bodies hanging on barbed wire like grim scarecrows, bodies torn apart from shells and bullets and flying scraps of metal, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, the new white crosses in green fields, funeral bells. Through all that Jamie had Jim, warm and alive and well, and the purest joy suffused his heart. Not everyone was as lucky as he. He watched Jim pray without impatience, content to drink in the sight of him, the sound of his soft voice. He had waited so long.

“Glória Patri et Fílio et Spirítui Sancto. Sicut erat in princípio, et nunc et semper et in sæ´cula sæculórum.” Jim’s brow furrowed. “Amen.” Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “You’re –“ He pressed his lips together, and his face grew very white.

“Hello there.” Jamie slid a hand along the bed and held it out.

Jim set his rosary on Jamie’s bedside table, then took Jamie’s hand gingerly, as if it were made of fragile porcelain. “You’re awake.”

Jamie nodded.

“Dear God.” Tears sprang to Jim’s eyes. He rubbed the back of his free hand against his mouth in a gesture that was both carnal and childishly innocent, quickly glanced around the room lined with beds, and then lifted Jamie’s hand to his lips and kissed the palm. He lowered Jamie’s hand to the counterpane, but continued to hold it. “I –“ He lowered his head and covered his face. His shoulders shook with weeping.

Jamie saw a tear trickling from between two of Jim’s outspread fingers, and for some reason, the image tore into his heart. He bit his lip and swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Oh, Jim, now –“ Fumbling, he freed his hand from Jim’s and leant forward, wincing, to stroke his hair. “Please…please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” Jim dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “I’m so sorry.” He smiled tremulously at Jamie. “It’s just that I’ve not set eyes on you for so long, and I hadn’t heard from you for two months – I was frantic with worry. And now you’re here, but so pale and thin – oh, Jamie.” Jim clasped Jamie’s hand again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to make a scene. I’m so glad to see you, but my head and my heart are giving me what-for.” He laughed in spite of the tears that still pooled in his eyes and trembled on his eyelashes, darkening them into wet feathery fringes. His brilliant smile brightened the rapidly dimming room.

“Did my mother…telephone you?”

“Yes. You look positively parched. Do you want some water?” 

Jamie nodded. A drink of water would be ambrosial. “Please.”

There was a water pitcher and glass on Jamie’s table. Jim poured a half glass. “Can you sit up? Never mind, just tilt your head back a bit.” He tipped the water into Jamie’s mouth. “Slowly, now. Slowly. Don’t make yourself sick.” Jim took the glass away and wiped at Jamie’s mouth with a corner of the sheet. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Jim’s eyes were still very bright. “Good.” He took Jamie’s hand again. “This is the best I can do,” he whispered. “I want to kiss you, but I daren’t.”

“I wish you could.”

“So do I.” Jim glanced around again. “No – too risky. I’ll save it. I’m not hurting you, am I? Are you comfortable?”

Jamie smiled tiredly. “You couldn’t hurt me.”

“Stop – you’ll make me cry again.” Jim’s smile faltered a little. “I was so relieved to get that telephone call. It was dashed kind of her to make it. You see, there was some sort of mix-up with the casualty list. Have your parents told you?”

“Told me what? What happened?”

“It seems that there was some sort of clerical error in France. You were on the list as missing, believed killed.” Jim’s breath shuddered out of him. “I exerted every bit of influence I had to find you, but it was impossible. Thank God you were cared for, but it was as if you’d vanished into thin air. I checked the lists every day, and it wasn’t until you were on the hospital ship roster that I discovered you’d been wounded. Then there was a gap when the hospital where you were meant to be transferred was over-full. Someone from the hospital here must have notified your parents. I’m ashamed of the inefficiency of our record-keeping, especially as I’m supposed to be in charge of some of it.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Jamie turned his hand upward and squeezed Jim’s. “Christ. I’m so blasted weak. Can scarcely move my hand.”

“You’ve had a rough go of things, but you’ll be all right. I know you will. We’ve got to feed you up and get you walking again –“ Jim shook his head. “You’ll be fine. You’re home now.”

“It’s so good to see you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Jim smiled. “And you. You can’t imagine – well, perhaps you can. I’m so happy.” He laughed again. “Funny old thing, you being in Kent. I’m staying at my parents’ house for a few days. I’ve totted up a bit of leave myself, so I’ve got ‘til Sunday to spend with you, for as long as the nurses let me. The head nurse is a bit of a dragon. I had to give a full accounting of myself before she’d let me see you.”

“How are you?”

“Delirious with joy.” Jim’s smile brightened. “Honestly. I’m ripping. I want to pick you up and carry you out of here, but I know I can’t, more’s the pity.”

“Captain Nicholls.” 

Jamie looked up to see a young nurse in a blue and white uniform. She nodded at him and addressed Jim. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now. We must have quiet on the ward so the men can rest.”

“Just a few more moments,” Jamie pleaded.

The nurse glanced down at their linked hands and shrugged. “Five minutes, and I must enforce that.” She nodded again and turned on her heel. 

Jim bit his lip as her heels tapped out an almost military cadence as she walked away. “Told you – a dragon.”

“That’s the head nurse? Bit young to be in charge of it all.”

“Young, but formidable. Well, mustn’t disobey orders.” Jim placed his other hand on Jamie’s and stroked gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Will you tell me what’s happening? With the war, I mean. I’m having trouble believing I’ve been unconscious for more than a month. At least – everything I can remember is terribly hazy.”

“I’m sure it helped with the pain, though. Now they’ve got to wean you off the stuff, and that’s another matter.”

“I’m ready to be free of it tomorrow.”

“I doubt they’d do that to you.” Jim rubbed Jamie’s hand gently. “Shall I bring some newspapers tomorrow? You’d catch up more quickly that way. And here –“ He reached down and retrieved a small bundle of letters from the shelf below his bedside table. “These caught up with you at last. I see there are three of mine here. I’m rather ashamed of them now – they get more piteous and pleading with each successive letter. I hadn’t realised you’d been wounded. Perhaps I should just take them with me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jamie said. “I shall read them at breakfast tomorrow morning.” He offered Jim a weary grin. “Thank you for coming to see me. I’m sorry this is such a – an odd way to see you at last.”

“When I think of what might have happened, I’m more than happy to see you like this. You’re healing, that’s the main thing.” Jim’s face grew still. “I shall get on my knees tonight and thank God that you’ve come back to me.”

“Do you think God approves?”

Two spots of pink coloured Jim’s cheeks. He looked down at their joined hands. “He must,” he said softly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He rose to his feet and collected his rosary, slipping it into his tunic pocket. “I’ll come tomorrow morning.”

“Do, please.”

“I will.” Jim gently folded Jamie’s arm onto his chest and leant close to his ear. “I do love you so.” He straightened, gazing down at Jamie with a tender smile, and winked.

Jamie laughed, heedless of the pain in his belly. Oh, God, it was heaven to see him again.

“That’s my boy,” Jim whispered. He collected his cap, saluted briefly, and turned to go. At the door he paused, looked over his shoulder, and beamed, then disappeared.

Jamie fought the urge to call Jim back. _Steady on, you’ll see him tomorrow._ Slowly, he reached for the bundle of letters on the bedside table and shuffled through them, setting Jim’s on the bed. He checked the postmarks and opened the oldest one first, glancing up when another nurse, this one plump, with very red lips, touched his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Time for your medicine, Colonel.” 

Jamie frowned at the spoon and brown bottle in her hand. “Morphine?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. It’s for the pain.”

“I don’t want any more, nurse….”

“Harding, sir.”

“Nurse Harding. It makes me unbearably foggy. I’ve lost track of the last month and a half because of it. I’m afraid I’m turning into some sort of lotus-eater.”

The nurse raised a shapely blonde brow. “You may change your mind tonight.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Jamie said with a firm nod. “Meanwhile, may I ask a favour? Would you find a doctor to speak to me about my condition as soon as it can be managed?”

“Heavens,” the nurse said. “You’re full of beans, aren’t you? Having your friend visit must have done no end of good.” 

“Oh, I think it did.” Jamie smiled. He did feel clearer; prior to Jim’s visit, his conscious thinking had felt as if he were trying to wade through a sea of eye-high fluffy cotton-wool.

“Well, I’m not on until tomorrow noon, but I’ll leave word with Nurse Cahill.” Nurse Harding pocketed her bottle and spoon. “Was that gentleman in your company, then, Colonel?”

“My first regiment,” Jamie said. “A cavalry regiment. He was invalided home.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to see he hasn’t forgot about you.” The nurse gently took the letters from his hands. “You mustn’t read now, you’ll strain your eyes. Sleep now, if you can, and if the pain gets too bad, don’t feel shy about calling out. I must say, it does give me a lift when I see fellows visiting their comrades. Lovely of them.”

“It is,” Jamie agreed fervently. “Indeed it is.”

 

*

 

August faded slowly into September, and Jamie was still trapped in the hospital, though his condition had improved immensely, according to the physicians and nurses. He walked with the aid of a cane, and he had weaned himself somewhat ruthlessly away from the morphine, relying on aspirin for the pain. It wasn’t a patch on morphine for making the pain disappear, or at least making him indifferent to it, but it was better than nothing at all.

The visits from Jamie’s parents had dwindled. Cynically, but accurately, Jamie observed that as long as his imminent death wasn’t on the horizon, their attention wavered, but affectionate neglect was their long-established pattern and it never occurred to Jamie to question it as he’d never known anything else. His father had returned to Scotland for the shooting, and his mother remained in London, where he would go when his convalescence at St. Thomas’ ended. She’d come up a few times, bringing books and chocolates that were too rich for him to eat without getting sick. He was grateful for the books, and passed the chocolates on to the other fellows in the ward, who devoured them happily.

And on the week-ends, he had Jim, who had come from London faithfully, spending every possible moment with Jamie, and brushing aside Jamie’s protests that Jim was likely giving up his free time to spend with an invalid. Jim brought books and magazines and newspapers, and together they read about Germany and Austria-Hungary’s dwindling might, the growing, if hard-gained, Allied victories in France and the Balkan theatre. Jim wheeled Jamie about in a chair when the weather was fine, and when they were out of anyone’s sight, allowed him to walk more than the nurses would have approved. They found a secluded bench in a green park near the hospital, and made it their own. They would play a few hands of cards, or Jim would read poetry to Jamie, or they would simply sit quietly, soaking up the last of the summer’s warmth. Jamie listened now, his eyes fixed on Jim’s face as he read, his voice gently rising and falling with the rhythm of the verse.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,  
I all alone beweep my outcast state  
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries  
And look upon myself and curse my fate,  
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,  
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,  
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,  
With what I most enjoy contented least;  
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,  
Like to the lark at break of day arising  
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;  
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings  
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Jim closed the worn little book. “What do you make of it?”

“I suppose he means that when he’s feeling low and wretched and jealous of other chaps’ good fortune, he thinks about the one he loves best, and all at once things are quite sunny again.”

“Sensible fellow, that Will.” Jim smiled and stretched. “I had better get you back, or they’ll send out a search party. You must be cold, too – I should have brought a lap rug or some such. You’ll catch cold in just pyjamas and a bathrobe.”

“I’m perfectly warm,” Jamie said, then regretfully peered at the waning sunlight hovering uncertainly through the leaves of the trees. “It does seem to be getting dark earlier and earlier.”

Jim heaved himself to his feet and tucked his book into his pocket. “Well, come on, then, Colonel, before the night falls and I get another tongue-lashing from the nurses for keeping you out past supper time. They’re going to bar me from visiting you if it happens again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“You’re the model of gallantry.” Jim looked around, then bent and pressed a quick kiss to Jamie’s lips. “Good heavens, you’ve practically a full beard there. Why haven’t the nurses shaved you?”

“They’ve other things to worry about – a new bunch of men arrived day before yesterday. There hasn’t been time.” Jamie ruefully brushed a hand up his cheek, wincing at the stubble there. “I’d have asked for some hot water and a razor myself, but they’ve been so busy, I didn’t like to trouble them.”

“Chivalrous of you.” Jim began to push the wheelchair toward the hospital. “I think I can do something about it, if you like.”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Not at all, old chap.” Jim patted his shoulder. “We’ve got to keep you looking spruce.”

Jamie fell silent as Jim rolled the chair along the pavement. He’d no right to expect Jim to wait on him so patiently, but every moment spent with him felt like the most fragile and precious of gifts, and Jim was so merry, so full of buoyant spirit as he blithely brushed aside Jamie’s feeble protests. “I just want to be with you,” he’d said, and how could Jamie argue that when he wanted the same thing? After almost two years of loneliness and terror and violence, it was enough to simply have him nearby, to study his dear face, the colour of his eyes, the vivacity of his lavish smile, the grace of his lean body, the cleverness of his long hands as they sketched a tree or tidied Jamie’s blankets or turned the page of a book. Jamie was not, he knew, a man anyone in his right mind would call humble, but the miracle of Jim’s presence during these last warm days of summer made him feel very small and very humble indeed. 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I was just…I was thinking, a little while ago, about the reversal of our roles. That is – four years ago you were in a wheelchair, and I was pushing you.”

“How true. Thus are the mighty fallen.” Jim sounded amused. “You’re in my nefarious clutches now, fair sir.”

Jamie chuckled. “Four years. It seemed to pass so slowly.”

“It was nigh unbearable for me, I don’t mind telling you. But you’re home at last. I’m content.”

“And what now?” Jamie tried to put the question lightly, but it fell like a stone, weighted with anxiety.

“Ah.” Jim pushed him in silence for a moment. “There’s the rub, isn’t it?”

“Jim, can we stop for a bit?”

Obligingly, Jim stopped the chair beside a low stone wall and sat, peering earnestly at Jamie. “I’ve been thinking of that very thing, Jamie, but I haven’t got an answer and I didn’t like to bring it up when you’re still healing.”

“I won’t shatter because of a difficult question, old man. I’m not made of crystal.” Jamie quieted until two women walking a placid Labrador and a nervous, yapping Pekingese passed by and moved out of earshot. The mingled scent of their perfume lingered a moment then faded away. “Jim, you’re so good and honest and fine – but the war made for peculiar circumstances, didn’t it?”

Jim’s expression became troubled. “What are you telling me?”

Jamie shook his head, feeling bereft and helpless. He wished he were as eloquent as Jim, that words fell easily from his lips. “You’ve been so…marvellous, but now the war’s ending – if not this year, then almost certainly next year, and it’s only that I…I wasn’t certain about how you felt regarding all…this.”

Jim frowned thunderously, then his eyes widened. “Are you saying you think I’ve gone off you, or that I’m planning to?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I know your parents must be eager for you to meet young ladies, to start a family.”

“You weren’t listening to that poem, I see.” 

“I certainly was,” Jamie replied with a touch of indignation.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Jim said softly. “I know that. It’s never been easy for men like us, Jamie, and as I said, I haven’t answers. No, I do have one. I love you with all my heart, and I shall love you until the day I die. I know that the moment you told me that you loved me was the pinnacle of happiness for me, and that every day since, no matter how fraught with fear and distress, has been the better because of that knowledge. I have hopes, Jamie, but no expectations.”

It was an unnerving and amazing thing to hear. Jamie, who preferred certainty and preparedness above all things, felt a strange thrill of exultation and terror. Jim, who had waited for him, who had held his heart and opened his body to Jamie’s touch, was willing to leap the abyss. Tentatively, Jamie spoke. “I suppose, then, that we shall have to take our fences as we find them.”

Relief flooded Jim’s face. “Do you mean that?”

Jamie nodded. What a curious freedom. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking.”

“I know. But we’ve got to start somewhere.” Jim stood. “Come on, we’re really going to cop it.”

The nurses were too busy to chide Jim for bringing Jamie back late, and in fact happily accommodated Jim’s request for shaving things. “We’ve not had time lately,” one of the nurses confided, “what with all the new lads. It’s good of you, Captain.”

“Not at all.” Jim trimmed Jamie’s mustache with a tiny pair of scissors, then carefully sharpened the razor on a leather strop the nurse had given him. He wetted and lathered Jamie’s face, then tilted Jamie’s head back and shaved his throat with a sure, steady hand. “Something quite exciting about doing this to you in the midst of all these unsuspecting people.”

Jamie was glad for the shaving soap that obscured the flush rising to his face. “You’ve got a cheek, Captain.”

“Indeed, haven’t I just.” Jim grinned a bit wickedly, then wiped the blade and shaved Jamie’s cheeks and chin, tilting his face this way and that, humming absently as he worked. “There! Not bad, if I do say so myself. If this editing position doesn’t work out the way I hope, perhaps I can become a barber.”

Jamie laughed, wiped off the remnants of soap, and felt his newly sleek face. “Much better. Thanks, old man. Now I won’t scandalise Mother when she comes to visit.”

“Will she be taking you home at last?”

“I hope so,” Jamie said. “I’m deuced tired of this place, not that they haven’t been terribly kind. I’m sure they can use the spare bed, too.”

“It’ll be wonderful to have you back in London.” Jim’s eyes gleamed with sudden mischief, and he lowered his voice to an insinuating murmur. “I don’t suppose you know exactly when you’ll be able to –“

“There you are!”

Jamie stiffened at the familiar booming voice. He looked up at Jim for a moment, then closed his eyes briefly. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Jim’s brow furrowed, and he turned to look at the newcomer, a tall man with dark hair, blue eyes, and a roguish, handsome face. He wore the uniform of an army private with style and dash, as if it had been tailored for him. Jamie would have bet his earthly fortune that it had. The man smiled at Jamie, but the smile was perfunctory, failing to reach his eyes.

“Been looking everywhere for you. Ready to come home?”

Resignation filtered into Jamie’s heart and bled out into his voice. “Hello, Philip.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be on a brief [I hope no more than two-week] hiatus as I will be traveling away from home, but I promise more just as soon as I can and, I hope, an extra-long and toothsome chapter to make up for the absence. Thank you. :)


	10. And what you meant is plain

My eyes  
Meet yours that mean---   
With your cheeks and hair---   
Something more wise,   
More dark,   
And far different.

\---Edward Thomas, _After You Speak_

 

*

 

“Wee brother!” Philip strode toward Jamie, his smile broadening. “How are you, sprat? Looks like your luck ran out at last.” He shook Jamie’s hand and then noticed Jim. “Why, hello there. Lieutenant Nicholls, isn’t it?”

“Captain Nicholls,” Jamie corrected quietly. 

“That’s right.” Philip shook Jim’s hand. “We met last Christmas, didn’t we? Pleasure to see you again. Good of you to visit my baby brother.”

“We did. It’s kind of you to remember.” Jim rested a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “And of course I’m visiting. Jamie’s my closest friend.” He smiled at Jamie, his heart in his eyes.

Jamie returned the smile, but with a jab of guilty shame wished Jim would withdraw his hand. It appeared to be no more than a friendly gesture, but he’d been the object of Philip’s pointed cruelty for far too long to permit any outward sign of vulnerability upon which his brother might fasten. So far, Philip knew nothing of his predilections, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“That does the heart good, doesn’t it?” Philip set a small valise on the floor, settled himself onto Jim’s chair, and crossed one leg over the other. He took out a slim silver box and extracted a cigarette, tapping it on the case. “I gather you’re the Good Samaritan who’s been taking Jamie out and about on constitutionals.”

“When I can,” Jim said. “I work in London but come to see Jamie on week-ends.”

“The little blighter’s still got you hopping, has he? Even from a hospital bed. Impressive.” Philip lit his cigarette and gave Jim a smile.

Jim laughed. “He hasn’t ordered me to wheel him around in the park, if that’s what you mean. I expect you’ve come to take him home. Are you on leave?” He carefully avoided using Philip’s rank, a courtesy Jamie doubted Philip appreciated.

“That’s right. And yes, it’s all been arranged. I’ll collect you first thing tomorrow morning, Jamie. You haven’t much baggage, have you?” Philip nodded down at the valise beside the chair. “Mother packed some clothes for the journey. Can’t have you travelling in a bathrobe and pyjamas.”

“That was good of her,” Jamie said.

“Yes. She’s awfully concerned for you, sprat. I told her that you were fine, of course – otherwise they wouldn’t let you go. They’ve got to make room for those men who were wounded badly, don’t they?”

Jim’s fingers tightened on Jamie’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you might be labouring under a misunderstanding. I’m sure the hospital does need beds, but Jamie was very seriously wounded. He was stabbed with a bayonet, you see, and it’s only just –“

“Jim,” Jamie murmured. “It’s all right.”

Philip blinked. “My word. You _are_ loyal, Captain Nicholls.” He grinned and held one hand up in a gesture of peace. “Quite admirable of you. Look here, we’ll head out early tomorrow morning. Can we give you a lift back to London? I assume with Jamie gone you haven’t any reason to stay.”

“That’s kind, but my parents live here in Kent, and they’re expecting me to visit until Sunday evening. Thanks all the same.” Jim smiled, but his tone was just a shade cooler than before. He turned to Jamie and squeezed his shoulder briefly, and the warmth returned to his voice. “Jamie, I suppose I’ll see you back in London. I hope you don’t mind if I pop round during the week. I’ll telephone first, of course, and meanwhile, if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to tell me. You know where to find me. Anything at all.”

“I think we’ll manage, Captain, but that’s thoughtful of you,” Philip said, and nodded at Jim. “Good night.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you back at home, old man,” Jamie said. “Thank you for everything.” He was aware of how stiff and formal he sounded, and regretted it immensely, but Philip’s presence had thrown a spanner into their pleasant evening. He tried to communicate his dismay with his eyes, but Jim only smiled at him.

“Righto. Good night, then.” Jim settled his cap on his head and made his way to the door. He stopped, as was his custom, and tipped Jamie a salute before vanishing.

Jamie saluted in return and watched him go with a heavy heart. He was happy enough to be leaving the hospital, but not with Philip, and then there was the matter of being back in London, which would complicate matters. _Dash it._ He sighed and met Philip’s penetrating stare. Without making any overt movement or even flickering an eyelid, Philip had a trick of looking at people in a way that made them feel assessed and found wanting. Jamie was accustomed to it, but it still rankled.

“Didn’t mean to chase him away.” Philip drew on his cigarette.

 _Didn’t you?_ “Why didn’t you urge him to stay, then?”

Philip shrugged. “Why didn’t _you_? He’s your friend, after all.” 

And there was no answer for that. Jamie felt his hands clenching into fists and deliberately relaxed them. “I’ll see him later this week in London.”

“There it is, then.” Philip propped an elegantly shod foot on the bedside table and regarded Jamie dispassionately. “Rotten business getting stabbed, sprat.”

“Yes, it rather was.”

“Still, you seem hale and hearty again. Will you be able to walk?”

Jamie nodded. “Oh, yes. I need a cane at the moment, but I expect to be trundling along in no time.”

“Good. I don’t fancy carrying you.” Philip observed Jamie through a cloud of smoke. “Mother wrote me about you, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if waiting for Jamie to ask what she’d written, then chuckled. “So you’re a colonel now.”

Jamie stifled the sigh that wanted to escape. “That’s right.”

“And you won the V.C. as well.”

“Yes.”

“Well done you. How’d you manage that?” Philip’s cornflower-blue gaze raked Jamie up and down. “Quite a feat, unless they’re handing out Victoria Crosses like wedding favours nowadays. They might well be – I can’t be arsed to pay attention.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t find it all that interesting,” Jamie returned coldly.

“Probably right,” Philip acknowledged. “I had to hear about it _ad nauseam_ from Mother anyway – Jamie’s a colonel, Jamie won the V.C., Jamie met the King, Jamie walks on bloody water. I was surprised to hear that you were laid up with a wound. Thought surely you’d be up in a few days and healing the sick with one touch from your saintly hands.” His tone was light, teasing, but he regarded Jamie with that peculiar, knowing speculation again.

Jamie’s mouth thinned into a grim line. It was positively astounding; in no time at all, he felt himself a child again, the subject of his brother’s unwanted attention. Perhaps all siblings reverted to their childhood roles as adults. He found it an unpleasant sensation. “As you said, my luck ran out. I suppose it had to happen sometime.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Philip seemed happy enough now that Jamie had conceded his point. “Well, it’ll be smashing to have you home again.”

“How long is your leave?” Jamie inquired.

Philip smiled. “Long enough.” He rose to his feet, dropped the cigarette to the floor, and crushed it under the toe of his shining boot. “I’ll be here at nine sharp tomorrow. Be ready to go.” He reached out and patted Jamie’s cheek. “See you then.”

 

*

 

Margaret proffered a plate of tiny cakes, piped with icing, a plump raspberry at the centre of each. “Another, Captain? This is the absolute last of our fresh raspberries. It’s nothing but jam now until summer begins again.”

Jim smiled and took a cake. “Time waits for no man, nor ripe raspberries. With an inducement like that, how can I refuse? Thank you. They’re delightful.”

“It’s a pity you can’t stay for dinner.” Margaret smiled at Jim, and Jamie felt a swell of proprietorial pride. Despite the class barrier that would likely never tumble, it would take a colder heart than his mother’s not to respond to Jim’s disarming sweetness. It was more than his looks; Jamie knew men who were considered handsomer, but none of them inspired the same eagerness, the same willingness to please Jim’s manner evoked in others. Jim had been enormously popular in their regiment with officers and enlisted men alike. Everyone had known his name and had had a kind word for him, or a joke to share. And when Jim had been trapped in the hospital in France, he had only to frown or wince and it seemed a nurse materialised beside him at once, ready to assist with whatever troubled him, shyly responding to his grateful smile. It was at once the most extraordinary and the most unsurprising thing; the more time Jamie spent with Jim, the more he wanted to make Jim happy. Why shouldn’t other people feel the same way?

“We have plans this evening,” Jamie said. “Another night, perhaps.”

Margaret sighed. “Yes, I suppose you have time now, though poor Philip isn’t as lucky.”

Sleek and fashionable in a closely cut dark-blue suit and a pale-grey silk tie, Philip lounged in a nearby chair. He offered a languid wave of one hand. “At least I’ve managed to avoid being shot.”

“Philip has the devil’s own luck,” Jamie murmured. His own grey worsted suit lacked distinction next to Philip’s and hung a bit on him because of his recent indisposition; with a touch of envy, Jamie wondered exactly when Philip had found the time to buy new clothes, but then Philip always managed to be smartly turned out for any occasion, a peacock in a room full of pigeons. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, won’t you, Philip? When’s your train?”

“Six o’clock Wednesday morning.”

“Shall I drive you to the station?”

“Don’t bother,” Philip replied. “Murchison can do it.”

“Murchison’s back in Selkirk,” Jamie said.

“Oh, right. Dash it, I’d forgot. Well, I can get one of the servants to drive me. Thanks all the same. Damned sorry I’m leaving so soon. I’m missing the hunt. I expect you’ll be headed up there, even if you’re not riding right now.”

“I’m not, as it happens,” Jamie replied. “I’m staying in London.”

“Good God, why?”

Jamie fixed Philip with an even, chilly stare. “I seem to have lost my taste for blood sports.”

“Oh, please, spare me the moist sentiments, sprat. A fox isn’t a man, and even so, it’s a long chalk from shooting some confounded jerry in a filthy trench. Do you hunt, Captain Nicholls?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jim said. “I was taught to ride by Jesuit priests, and they were rather adamantly opposed to the notion of hunting for pleasure, and so I never adopted the custom. I doubt it would be to my inclinations at any rate. I’m rather fond of foxes.”

“Well, I reckon you’re well-matched, the pair of you,” Philip said dubiously. “Where are you two headed this evening?”

“I’m taking Jamie to meet some of the lads I work with at the War Office,” Jim said. “Now that he’s up and about, I thought it was high time he met some of the fellows I wrote him about so often.”

Jamie cast an affectionate glance at Jim. “I feel as if I know them already. Jim’s letters were quite heartening and lively, Mother. They truly kept my spirits up.”

“That’s marvellous,” Margaret said. “Wonderful that you found so much in common.”

“Write to him often, did you?” Philip asked.

“Why, yes,” Jim said. “As often as I could.” He took a last bite of his little cake and patted his mouth with his napkin, then seemed to notice that Philip was staring at him as if waiting for him to say more. “Not as often as I’d have liked. The war’s kept us all busy, even those of us unlucky enough to get shot.” He let out a good-natured chuckle, acknowledging and diffusing Philip’s earlier barb.

Margaret leant forward. “And do you intend to stay with the War Office once it’s all over, Captain?” 

“No, my lady. In fact, I shall be joining a small publishing house as an editor once the war’s over.”

“A literary lion!” Philip said. “My God.”

“I’m not a writer myself,” Jim said. “I hope I don’t flatter myself too much by saying that my true gift is perceiving the beauty of the words of others. I’ve been reading the most extraordinary poetry recently, all connected to the war. It’s terribly heart-rending.”

“We’re not much for books ourselves,” Philip said. “You wouldn’t think it, looking at our bloody libraries, but we’re not a reading family, much less a writing one.”

“Well, there is your cousin Percival,” Margaret said. “He writes poetry.”

“Yes, but _he_ won’t be writing war poetry, will he? Bloody army wouldn’t take him.” Philip rolled his eyes. “A bit on the delicate side, is our Percy.”

Philip’s casually flung words struck a low and discomfiting note in Jamie’s heart. Afraid that his face was beginning to turn red, he took a sip of tea he no longer wanted and set the cup down. “We should be leaving soon, Jim.”

“Sure you won’t stay for dinner? Mother’s invited some of the old crowd. Girls, mostly, but that’s just fine with me. Keep me away from the stodgy old parties.” Philip tipped Jim a roué’s dissolute wink; even Philip, disdainful as he was of most things, seemed to want to impress Jim. “Charlotte Thorpe, for one. Mother says you were getting along with her _quite_ well last year, Jamie.”

“Charlotte’s beau died this past summer, as you well know,” Jamie replied stiffly. “I hardly think it’s appropriate to speak of her so lightly.”

“That just means she’s free, old boy, and in need of comfort.”

“Oh, for God’s sake –“

“Jamie,” Margaret cautioned. “Philip didn’t mean any harm. You mustn’t be so snappish.”

“Sorry, Mother.” Jamie rose to his feet. “I’m not certain I’ll be home this evening. I may sleep at the club if it gets late.”

“You’ll be home for Philip’s farewell dinner tomorrow, though?” Margaret wanted to know.

“Yes, I expect so.” Jamie was nearly shaking with anger, but he could scarcely fathom why. It took an effort to appear nonchalant.

Jim got up and bowed over Margaret’s hand. “Thank you for a delightful afternoon, my lady.”

“Do come again,” Margaret said, then hesitated. “Perhaps you’d like to come to dinner tomorrow night? It’s only a very small affair and I’m afraid you won’t know many people there, but it would do Jamie good to have a friend present, I think.”

“Thank you, but I have another engagement.” Jim picked up his cap. “It’s very kind of you to ask me, though. Perhaps another time.” He turned to Philip and extended his hand. “Splendid to see you again.”

“Take care, old boy.” Philip shook Jim’s hand and sank back into his chair. “See you tomorrow, sprat.”

Jamie retrieved his walking stick and nodded at Philip. “Cheerio.” He moved slowly out of the room, Jim on his heels, and didn’t speak as the maid fetched their coats and hats.

Jim put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Jamie shrugged into his coat. “Let’s find a cab, please.”

 

*

 

Jim unlocked the door to his flat and stood aside to let Jamie in. “Here we are – home at last. It really hasn’t changed a bit since the last time you visited. Look here, old man, are you sure you’re –“ His words dwindled into an abrupt muffled noise of surprise as Jamie took Jim in his arms and kissed him ferociously. He yielded for a moment, then stepped away, flushed and laughing. “I’m happy to see you too. Let me close the door, at least, so I don’t scandalise my neighbors.” He suited actions to words, then took off his cap and hung it on a hook. “Now – let me kiss you properly. I’ve been waiting for almost two years, you know.” He deftly removed Jamie’s hat and hung it, and then pulled Jamie into an embrace. 

Letting his stick drop to the floor with a clatter, Jamie all but flung himself into the space between those strong arms and pressed his lips to Jim’s. At once Jim’s mouth opened and Jamie kissed him without gentleness or finesse. He wanted to devour Jim whole, to obliterate his sensations of discontentment and gradually increasing distress, as if some sort of corruption had insinuated itself into the fabric of his life, discernible only at odd moments, a sudden faint, foul odour. He clung tightly to Jim, grateful for his strength, his gentle gallantry.

Jim pulled back and cupped Jamie’s chin in his hand. “Dear Jamie – tell me, what’s got you so unhappy?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie replied. “Only – I missed you terribly. I thought I’d never have the chance to be truly alone with you again. It was killing me.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way.” Jim kissed him softly on the mouth. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.” Jamie gripped Jim’s arms. “It was killing me, being cooped up in that bloody house.”

“Ah.” Jim stroked the back of his fingers over Jamie’s cheek. “I think we both need a stiff drink. What do you say to that?”

“Cracking idea.”

Jim put his hands on either side of Jamie’s head and kissed him. Then he bent and retrieved Jamie’s stick. “To the couch, my good man. Drinks in a flash.”

Jamie nodded and hung his coat, then made his way into the parlour. Everything was as it had been almost two years ago, and Jamie felt soothed, though it wasn’t his own home. An air of comfort if not luxury prevailed and, Jamie thought, not a little sense of Jim’s sunny disposition. It was a far cry from his London house with its glacial grandeur, and even the Selkirk house where he’d spent his happiest childhood moments had never held a flavour of welcome the way Jim’s modest rooms did. Perhaps he was simply accustomed to military austerity.

A little coal fire crackled merrily and pervaded the room with warmth. The sight of it brought a prickle of tears to Jamie’s eyes. He wiped them away fiercely, plodded to the couch, and sat with a thud. _What the devil’s the matter with me? I’m not succumbing to shell-shock at last, am I?_ Mortified, he dragged out a handkerchief and blew his nose. _Get hold of yourself before Jim comes in here and sees you weeping over nothing at all._ He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and arranged a pleasant, bland expression on his face.

“Here we are.” Jim, still wearing his trench-coat, came in with a bottle and two glasses, and handed the glasses to Jamie. “Hold on to these for a moment, will you?” He poured them both a double whisky, set the bottle on the side table, and shrugged out of his coat, tossing it on a chair. “Much better,” he said, taking one of the glasses from Jamie and sitting beside him on the couch. “Now. What to toast?”

Jamie held up his glass. “To you, Jim.”

Jim gave Jamie one of the lavish smiles that Jamie had feared he’d never see again. “And to you, Jamie.” He touched his glass to Jamie’s. “Bottoms up, old man. Lots more where that came from.”

They drank, finishing their doubles in a single draught. Jamie shuddered and held out his glass for more. “Feel like I _should_ get drunk,” he muttered.

“Coming up.” Jim poured another drink and handed it to Jamie. “Now – is it Philip? Is he what’s got you so down in the mouth?” He poured another drink for himself, but sipped judiciously instead of upending it into his gullet.

Jamie felt his lips twisting into a grimace. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“Well, I fancy myself a rather expert observer of Colonel James Stewart, in and out of his native habitat. I suppose that crack he made about your cousin –“

“Percy,” Jamie sighed. “Yes, Percy’s – well. Not terribly masculine.”

“Does Philip know about you?”

Jamie shook his head. “No. And if he found out, there would be hell to pay.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

Startled, Jamie looked into Jim’s eyes. “Afraid? No…not physically. Not anymore, at least.” He smiled bitterly. “Time was – years ago – I was terrified of him. He was the sort of boy who’d steal up behind you and twist your arm up your back for no reason at all – and then he’d laugh. And God help you if you cried.”

Jim’s mouth tightened. “A bully.”

“Just so. It didn’t last forever, though at the time….” Jamie shrugged. “Eventually he found other…diversions.” Jamie finished his second drink and rotated the glass in his hand. The whisky burned comfortingly in his throat and stomach. “Jim…if I tell you something, will you swear to keep it to yourself?”

“Of course I will, Jamie.”

Jamie nodded. “I know you will. I know. It’s only that…it’s dreadful.”

“If it’s too difficult –“

“No. I’ve got to tell it. I’ve got to tell someone, at last. I shan’t be able to tell it again, I think.” Jamie took a deep breath. “It happened when I was fourteen, and Philip was seventeen. It was summer, and we were both on our school holidays. Mother and Father were on the Continent – Austria, I think – and we were pretty much left to our own devices. The staff was there, of course, but they never interfered with us. At any rate, it was a pleasant summer. Good weather, and Philip was less…wretched than usual. I was wary, of course – it didn’t do to let one’s guard down because one never knew when things would turn ugly, but for the most part, he was nearly affable.”

Jim said nothing, but he nodded in encouragement.

“So we were riding one afternoon, and there was a path through a little glen that followed a stream. It was family land, but there were tenant cottages…anyhow, as we were riding along, a girl came running onto the path. Frightened both horses, but we kept our seats. She began crying and screaming at Philip. I was dished, I don’t mind telling you. Had no idea what she was going on about, but Philip clearly did, because he dismounted and took the girl by the hand. Then he told me to stay put and led her off toward the stream.”

“And you, being a curious fourteen-year-old boy, followed,” Jim said.

“That’s right. The wood was thick enough to conceal an eavesdropper. So I lashed the horses to a tree, and then followed them and listened.”

“I can guess what you heard,” Jim said. “He’d got her in the family way, hadn’t he?”

“Yes. And she was threatening to tell our parents. She was the daughter of one of their tenants, and she said he was responsible since she…since she hadn’t wanted to in the first place.”

“He raped her,” Jim said tonelessly.

Jamie sighed deeply and inclined his head. “I didn’t understand, not at first. He tried to soothe her, but she was crying, and it took some effort.” He cleared his throat. “After a while it seemed as if he’d calmed her somewhat, and I heard him promise he’d visit her that evening, and they’d go to Gretna Green and marry, and everything would be fine. So I ran back to the horses and untied them and waited, and he finally emerged without her. He was red in the face and breathing as if he’d just run a mile, but I didn’t say a word. I reckon he was too preoccupied to notice me. We went back to the house, and that night he went out again.”

“To elope?”

Jamie shook his head. “I didn’t think so. I knew damned well, even if the poor girl didn’t, that there was no way he’d tie himself down with a wife at seventeen, much less a tenant’s daughter. So I realised…and by and by I worked out what he’d done – that he’d forced himself on her. The more I thought about it, the more outraged I was. So I was foolhardy – I loitered about and waited for him to return, and when he did, I confronted him.” Jamie rubbed his eyes. “Can you pour me one more, Jim? A single this time. I find I don’t want to be drunk after all.”

“Of course.” Jim poured them both drinks. “What did you say to him?”

Jamie sipped. “Oh – I fancied myself quite the cavalier, I think. I told him he had to do the honourable thing, and if he didn’t, I’d tell Mother and Father. I was so certain of being in the right I didn’t stop to consider the matter at all.”

Jim shook his head. “And what did he say in response?”

“Say?” Jamie gave Jim a tight smile. “Not much. He dragged me out to the stables and beat me until I was crying and pleading for mercy.”

A spasm of anger crossed Jim’s face. His hand tightened on his glass, and he set it down on the floor. “Oh, Jamie –“

“He made me promise I wouldn’t tell. Said if I did he’d hurt me in ways I’d not thought of, and I believed him. But that wasn’t the worst of it. You see, the next morning…the next morning the girl’s mother found her in her bedroom. She’d hanged herself.”

“Dear God,” Jim whispered.

“When I heard, I didn’t know what to do. I thought of telling my parents, cabling them, but he’d intimidated me well enough. I covered up my bruises in front of the servants – luckily he’d left my face alone, so it wasn’t obvious.”

Jim’s brows drew together. “Lucky for him, you mean. My God, Jamie, you were only a boy.”

“A frightened, foolish boy. And Philip – when he heard the news – one of the grooms told us that evening – I couldn’t ride because of what he’d done, but I was helping curry the horses – he didn’t react at all, except to give me a warning look. And he never said another word about it.”

“You don’t think that he –“

“That he killed her?” Jamie shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. I…I’ve thought of it, but even he….” He looked at Jim. “I pray that he didn’t, Jim, but at times I’ve wondered. I’ve told you that he was demoted to the ranks for drinking and fighting, and I’ve often pondered…he’s always been volatile, you see, but capable of murder? I’ve shut out the possibility. It’s too unspeakable to contemplate. Cowardly of me, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Jamie shrugged. Heat rose in his face, unassisted by the whisky. “I’ve always felt a coward because of it.”

“Rubbish, Jamie. Still, I suppose it would be difficult, if not impossible, to falsify that sort of death,” Jim said.

“I don’t know. Perhaps. But what I mean to say, after all that, is that if he discovered that we – that I prefer the company of gentlemen to ladies, he would be quite capable of making my life a living hell. Yours, too, and I won’t have that. I could tell you other stories, more recent, but the upshot of all of them would be that he’s got a tremendous reserve of malice and cruelty in his heart. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m under no illusions that he’s softened the least bit. He’s a wretched human being, Jim, and I despise him. I’ve never forgiven him for that, and I’ve only just realised it.”

Jim drew close to Jamie and embraced him. “My dear, sweet Jamie. I wish I could help you.”

“You do,” Jamie murmured against the tender shell of Jim’s ear. “More than you know.” He’d talked more than he’d ever thought possible; he’d revealed a terrible weakness in himself, and Jim hadn’t withdrawn in horror or disgust.

“What it must have cost you to remain silent, knowing that. Knowing you lived with someone so heartless.”

“I was accustomed to it.”

“It’s devilishly unfair. No child should be subject to such terror.” Jim kissed Jamie’s cheek and held him close. “If he ever so much as gives you the wrong sort of look when I’m there –“

“No, Jim.” Jamie held him away. “I’ve got to preserve the peace for my parents’ sake, don’t you see? They don’t know what he’s like, not the half of it. He learned to dissemble early on, and they’ve only got the foggiest idea of his true nature. If they learn what happened, the part he played – I can’t even fathom the depth of their distress. The truth is, I hardly see him at all, haven’t spent more than a few hours at a time with him for years. When my parents are gone, then I needn’t see him ever again, but for now I keep him at a distance, and he’s bright enough to do the same.”

“But he likes to provoke you. I saw it at the hospital, and today at your house as well. And…when I met him, whilst you were away, I have to confess I didn’t take to him.”

Jamie smiled. “I thought not. In your letter you said you’d met him and chatted about the war a bit, that my mother looked enchanting, and that the cream cakes were delicious.”

“Oh, dear, am I that transparent? I couldn’t think what else to say.”

“You’re truthful, that’s all. Is that why you won’t be at dinner tomorrow night?”

“Actually, no. I promised to escort Pansy and her silly flat-mate to Kent – I’m going in my capacity as a porter, I suspect, for all their hatboxes and furbelows – and the train won’t be back in time. I could stop by afterward, if you like. Now that I know about him, I’ve an urge to protect you from him.”

“Never mind. He’s going back on Wednesday, and things will settle down again. But I thank you for your chivalry.” Jamie beamed. “Don’t let’s talk about him. Do you know I felt instantly at home when I walked in here?”

“Do _you_ know how lovely it is to hear you say that? Oh, Jamie, I’ve missed you so. I’ve dreamt and dreamt about having you back, and it’s beyond wonderful. Here, give me that.” Jim took the glass from Jamie’s hand and set it beside his own on the floor. “I thought we might stay in after all. Mrs. Taylor’s cooked a chicken for me and put it in the ice-box. I’ve bread and cheese, and beer.”

“A feast,” Jamie murmured. “What shall I say when my mother asks me about meeting your friends?”

Jim’s eyes twinkled wickedly. “You can tell her the truth. They’re splendid chaps and you’re very much looking forward to spending more time with them.”

For the first time in what seemed ages, Jamie felt arousal followed by a tingling of fear. “Jim, I don’t know if I ought to – I’m still feeling a bit under the weather, you see.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to cajole you into anything that causes you discomfort. We needn’t do a thing tonight.”

Jamie frowned. “I should have spoken to our doctor about it, I suppose, but when the time came, I was too bashful. I’m not a married man, after all, and I didn’t fancy listening to a lecture about the evils of prostitution. He’s quite elderly, a Methodist, and a rather austere fellow.”

“Well, you should have told him you weren’t interested in women at all.”

Jamie stared at Jim. “Wh –“ Jim winked, and they burst into laughter. “Oh, dear God. Can you imagine?” He sat back on the sofa. “I’d have killed the poor man.” The laughter felt marvellous, as if an entire set of muscles atrophied through lack of exercise was slowly working itself into life again.

“Very likely.” Jim ran a hand through his hair and then leant sideways, curling his legs up like a child and resting his head on the back of the sofa. The last of the afternoon light filtered through the curtains and slanted across his face, diffused by specks of dust in the air. “I’ve waited nearly two years. I can wait a little longer, I assure you.”

Jim’s generosity pierced Jamie’s heart. He struggled determinedly to his feet and held a hand out. “Come on.”

Jim peered up at him uncertainly. “But you’re –“

“I’m feeling a bit low, but that doesn’t mean we’re utterly helpless.” Jamie reached down, grasped Jim’s wrist, and tugged. “Up.”

“Yes, _sir_.” Jim leapt up and caught Jamie round the waist. “What did you have in mind?”

“You without a stitch of clothing on, for one thing.”

Jim bit his lower lip. “My word. Well….” He stepped back and swept a hand toward the doorway. “Lead on, good sir.”

Jamie moved into the bedroom as quickly as he could and breathed a contented sigh at the sight of the familiar space where they’d spent a handful of blissful nights, before the war swallowed them both once more. Now they were free; it seemed a dream. Jamie felt the sting of tears again and recognised them for what they were: the deferment of heartache, the pain of separation he’d ruthlessly suppressed, long buried under a thick layer of stoicism and blank, shattered horror and dirt and flying bullets and the spilt blood of innocent men. He stood still, absorbing the air of liberty into his skin.

Jim’s arms wound round him from behind, and soft lips brushed against his ear. “What is it?”

“I’m happy.” The words emerged in a trembling whisper. Jamie clasped Jim’s hands and held them tightly.

Gently, Jim turned Jamie to face him. His brow creased, and he brushed his thumb below Jamie’s eye. “Are you certain?”

Jamie pressed his lips together and nodded. “I –“ His throat closed up, rendering him mute. He moved close to Jim and kissed his mouth. The tears that he’d stopped up for almost four years finally flowed unchecked.

“Oh, Jamie –“ Jim drew Jamie to the bed and wrapped his arms round Jamie’s body. 

Jamie clung desperately to Jim, registering in a dim fashion how violent were the tremors that rippled through him, how steadily he wept, and at last he gave himself up to emotion. He was weary, so weary, and battered from the terror of battle, the slaughterhouse stink of corpses and drifting smoke from shells, the pervasive fear and panic that needs must be contained, the necessity of advancing at all costs to claim the smallest patch of muddy ground and the knowledge that in order to claim it, others would have to die by his hand. He had diverted his fear for himself into the incessant slaughter, into protecting his men, waiting for those brief respites of silence and calm that were merely spaces between further onslaughts of death. He thought of Jim, bleeding as he carried his limp body to the farmhouse in Flanders. And he was nothing out of the ordinary; in France, in Belgium, in the Judean hills, the battles raged on, and more men died every day. He clung to Jim and wept in silent, choking gasps for all that had been lost, and the thin, shining threads of hope and love that had borne him through the worst of the devastation. And Jim, his Jim, blessedly did nothing to stem the liberated tide of horror and rage and relief that swept through him. He only held Jamie close, stroking his back and his hair, and now and then kissing him with the greatest tenderness.

After a time, he pulled back and breathed shallowly in an attempt to recover his composure. He saw a flash of white and realised that Jim was proffering a handkerchief. He accepted it, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose and stuffed the kerchief in his pocket. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Jim’s hand settled onto his knee and stroked. “That was a long time coming, wasn’t it.”

Jamie nodded. “I hadn’t intended to…to fall apart. I’m sorry for it. Please don’t think badly of me.”

“Never.” Jim brushed Jamie’s hair back from his brow. “On the contrary. I don’t think I could possibly adore you more.”

A vast span of time and tragedy separated their first breathless passion from now, but Jamie remembered each touch, each kiss, each awkward, fumbling caress as though it had happened the day before. He smiled. “I’ve been selfish.”

“No.”

“I love you.”

The happiness on Jim’s face lifted Jamie’s heart. “Dearest Jamie.”

Jamie reached out and unbuckled Jim’s Sam Browne belt. “I kept my word.”

“So you did. I knew you would.” Jim shed his tunic and draped it over the brass bed rail. “I knew it.” Piece by piece, they undressed until the bed rails and the floor around them was littered with clothing. Jim urged Jamie up and drew the bedclothes down, then lay on the bed and opened his arms. “Come here. I just want to feel your body against mine. I promise not to touch you indecently.”

Jamie laughed softly and moved close to Jim. “What if I weren’t to make the same promise?” He slipped a hand between Jim’s legs.

“Ah –“ Jim arched his body, closed his eyes, and tilted his head backward, exposing the long length of his throat. “Oh, God almighty, Jamie –“

“This is what I meant.” Jamie lowered his mouth to Jim’s throat and suckled on it, gently biting. “We’re not helpless.”

“I am….” Jim reached up and grasped one of the vertical brass rails with both hands. “I shan’t touch you, not until you give me permission.”

Jamie moved down to one of Jim’s nipples and caressed the tender skin with his tongue. His own hardness ached, but he ignored it. He wasn’t ready to abandon himself, not quite yet. He still felt uncertain in his skin, as if the exertion of sexual release might break something inside him, but that was no reason not to give Jim as much pleasure as he could. Covetously, he lingered on the nipple, bringing it to a stiff peak, then moved to the other, never taking his hand from Jim’s hard prick.

Jim groaned deeply and spread his legs apart. “Jamie…Jamie….”

“Shh.” Jamie silenced Jim with a kiss, exploring his mouth more boldly than he’d ever done before, pressing Jim to the pillow, cupping his hand behind Jim’s head to pull him deeper. Jim tightened his grasp on the rails and whimpered, rocking his hips upward, thrusting into Jamie’s hand. All at once he moaned loudly into Jamie’s mouth, and Jamie felt sticky warmth on his hand. He captured Jim’s mouth completely, smothering his cry of release, and kept his hold on Jim’s cock until the shudders in Jim’s body had subsided.

Jim fell back, sweating and breathing hard, his eyes unfocused. “Oh….”

Jamie lifted his hand and examined the glistening fluid on it. Tentatively, he touched his tongue to it. Salty, not entirely unpleasant. He licked it off his hand and swallowed with a slight wince. Odd.

“You’ve undone me completely.” Jim’s voice was slightly raspy and utterly alluring.

“Did you like it?”

Jim laughed. “Yes. I liked it. Kiss me again.”

Jamie bent close. “You’re glorious.”

“Kiss me. I want to taste you now.”

Jamie kissed him, gentler after the frenzy of their first coupling. He was still hard, and the proximity of Jim’s naked body with the slightest exciting tang of fresh sweat, of maleness, made it difficult to concentrate on returning to an ordinary state. Jim let go of the bed rails and twined his arms and legs around Jamie. “Oh, God.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No,” Jamie groaned. “It’s a bit…challenging, that’s all.”

“Cold baths usually help.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Good.” Jim kissed him again. “I love you. I love you. I’m so glad you’re home to stay.”

Jamie rested his head on Jim’s shoulder and embraced him. “So am I, Jim,” he whispered. “So am I.”

 

*

 

The library of Stewart House was its most comforting room: book-lined, smelling pleasantly of old leather and paper, its fir-green walls and heavy furniture embracing and cosy, family knick-knacks and mementoes scattered across the gleaming oak bookshelves. Jamie had spent hours upon hours poring over the huge brass-bound globe, a sextant belonging to some more adventurous Stewart forebear always on a low shelf for curious little fingers to explore, the wooden kaleidoscope, the viewing-crystal of which had been broken at least once every few years. Later he’d devoured military histories, tales of battle: Hastings, Stirling, Bannockburn, Agincourt, Cadiz, Bunker Hill. Now he sat toasting his feet beside the fire and reading poetry as a dull, steady rain thumped against the windows. Philip’s assertion that no-one in the Stewart family read had been based purely upon his own impatience with the printed word. Jamie had never fancied himself a lover of poetry before, though; it had taken Jim’s enthusiasm for it, the sound of his voice lilting over its hills and valleys, to make him take an interest in it. Now he read it daily, and found it soothing.

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art —  
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,  
And watching, with eternal lids apart,  
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,  
The moving waters at their priestlike task  
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,  
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask  
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —  
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,  
Pillow’d upon my fair love's ripening breast,  
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,  
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,  
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,  
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

Jamie smiled and without thinking brushed his fingertips over the words on the page. That was Jim – brilliant and steadfast and watchful. And _sweet unrest –_ what a lovely phrase. He would see Jim tomorrow, and ask him to read the poem.

Muffled and distant, the door-bell rang. Jamie glanced at the mantel clock, wondering if anyone was expected. His mother had gone on some errand, and the house was quiet and peaceful. His wound ached less and less, even in the chill autumn weather, and he walked more easily now. In a month or so, he hoped, he would be able to get about without the walking-stick.

A shriek from the corridor jolted him out of his reverie. He lurched awkwardly to his feet, grabbed his stick, and headed to the door. 

Cora, one of the maids, sat on a chair in the hall, weeping as if her heart were breaking. Jim knelt in front of her, patting her hand, but he was smiling. 

They looked like lovers, and a brief, violent stab of jealousy assailed Jamie’s heart. “Jim? Whatever’s the matter?”

Jim rose to his feet, and he beamed at Jamie, moving toward him quickly, cap in hand, his trench-coat speckled with water. “Jamie – it’s happened. There’s to be an armistice.”

Jamie froze. “An armistice –“

“Yes. At last.” Jim grasped Jamie’s shoulders. “The guns will fall silent on the eleventh, at eleven o’clock in the morning, they say. It’s over. The war is over.”

A strange heaviness tugged at Jamie’s body, as if someone had poured sand inside his limbs and slowed the rhythm of his heart. He stared at Jim. “I can’t take it in. It’s truly over?”

Jim’s face positively glowed with happiness. “It is. It’s a new beginning – of everything.” 

“Dear Christ,” Jamie whispered. He recovered himself and turned to the maid. “Cora? Are you quite all right?”

Cora nodded, jumping to her feet and wiping at her tear-stained face with a corner of her apron. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just that my Michael’s in the navy, and now he’ll come home at last –“ She burst into tears again.

“Go on downstairs,” Jamie said. “Have a cup of tea and pull yourself together.” That wasn’t, he reflected belatedly, a very kind thing to say. He patted her shoulder with awkward affection. “Go on, my dear. And you have my congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” the girl gulped, and darted past them toward the kitchen.

“Michael’s her…suitor?” Jamie inquired in a low tone.

Jim bit his lip and nodded, his eyes twinkling. 

Jamie sighed. “I can’t believe it. I want to rejoice, but…it’s too much to take in. I feel as if the war’s just another aspect of existence now. I can scarcely remember what life was like before it.”

“I know. I’ve had a bit more time to think it over. I found out this morning, and waited ‘til luncheon to come and see you. And I think your reaction’s likely not unusual. There was a bit of a hullaballoo when we heard the news, and then the oddest sort of solemnity fell over the place. You could have heard a pin drop. And then it was back to business, as if the announcement had never happened. So strange, I can’t tell you. But it _is_ marvellous news, Jamie. An end to terrible, senseless slaughter. Those left alive will be able to come home at last.”

“Yes.” Jamie mustered a smile. “Have you time for a quick drink?”

“Just one. I must get back soon.”

“Come into the library.” He led the way into the warm, agreeable room and closed the door, then went to a cabinet and rummaged out two glasses and a decanter of brandy. He poured and handed one to Jim. “To peace.”

“Peace,” Jim echoed softly. They touched glasses and drank, each lost in his own thoughts.

Jim broke the silence. “There’s to be a commemoration at Whitehall on the eleventh. Will you come?”

“Am I welcome?”

“Of course. Any winner of the Victoria Cross is.”

Jamie’s mouth turned up at one corner. “Then I will.”

“Good.” Impulsively, Jim darted a kiss onto Jamie’s cheek. “It’s lovely to see you. Hadn’t expected to until tomorrow.”

“It’s wonderful to see you as well. I’m sorry I’m in such a state. I’m a bit numb.”

“Jamie…don’t apologise, not to me. I know you’ve suffered keenly thanks to this war. No – there you go again, wrinkling your nose at me. It’s charming, but you mustn’t. I don’t expect you to cut a caper. Well – I suppose I might have at first, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forgive me for that. I am glad to be the first to tell you, though.”

Jamie stroked Jim’s damp hair. “So am I. Thank you.”

Jim moved forward and kissed Jamie’s mouth, then suckled his earlobe. “You’re such a temptation. I wish I could stay longer. That sofa looks deuced comfortable for two.”

“You shock me, Captain Nicholls.”

“Heavens, if only – oh! I’d meant to tell you before the news – yesterday I swear I saw your brother in Piccadilly.” Jim shook his head. “It was the oddest thing. I was having luncheon with Gil Pendarves, and I thought I saw Philip outside the restaurant. Looked exactly like him, and whoever it was, he gave me a bit of a peculiar look, as if he’d recognised me. So I dashed out of the restaurant, but by the time I got outside, he was gone.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been Philip. He’s back in France.”

“Yes, I know. Still, he nearly blanched at the sight of me, which gave me a start in turn. Anyhow, I’ve got to go – will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Jamie said. “I’ve a poem for you to read to me. Keats.”

“Ah! It would be my pleasure.” Jim kissed Jamie again. “Thanks for the brandy. Walk me to the door?”

Jamie escorted Jim to the door and watched him settle his cap. “You’ll not be wearing that much longer.”

Jim paused. “You’re right. I shall have to invest in a wardrobe, I suppose. As I said – it’s a new beginning.” He pressed Jamie’s hand. 

“And a miracle that I’ve got you.”

“Why, Jamie….” Jim’s cheeks turned a bit pink. He stuck his hands in his trench-coat pockets, trotted down the steps, and saluted Jamie before walking briskly toward a cab stand. As he moved away, he began to whistle, quite sweetly.

With an overwhelming surge of affection, Jamie watched him go, his bright star.

 

*

 

The morning was chilly and rainy, but the stone hallway was uncomfortably warm, crowded as it was with uniformed men. Jamie cradled his peaked cap in one arm and ran a surreptitious finger beneath the collar of his blue tunic. The Victoria Cross gleamed on its breast, its ribbon bright and ostentatious, making him feel a bit of a fraud. His trepidation dissolved as he moved slowly through the throng, here and there finding old school chums, fellows he’d known in one capacity or another. They all had a jolly word for him, and not a few congratulated him on the honour bestowed upon him. 

“There you are!” Jim, resplendent in his own blue uniform, clapped Jamie on the arm. “They’re about ready. Shall we find an advantageous spot?”

Jamie nodded and followed Jim to a corner of the hall, where several men in cavalry regimentals loitered. They fell into conversation until a gong resounded, demanding silence.

Standing beside a column and behind rows and rows of soldiers, Jamie could not see the man who spoke, but he heard his voice in the silence, subdued and slightly weary.

“Today, after four years of terrible and bloody conflict, the guns fall silent at last, and justice prevails. We honour your courage, your tenacity, and your strength, and we honour those who have fallen in the cause of service to King and country. As the bell strikes the hour, let us pray in silence for those who have given their lives in sacrifice.”

The clock chimed; the hall was utterly silent. Jamie bowed his head and prayed for the lost men of his first regiment, for the men who’d served under him in his infantry battalion and who had died on those terrible battlefields. He prayed for their widows, their sweethearts, their children. And he thanked God, humbly, that Jim was alive and beside him.

“God bless you all. God save the King.”

“God save the King,” every man echoed.

And then, faintly, distantly, the sound of bells filtered into the stone hall. Jamie lifted his head and looked at Jim, puzzled. Other soldiers looked round, and as one, they moved toward the doors.

A roar, full-throated and triumphant, greeted them. Astonished, Jamie saw a massive crowd on the pavement, waving and cheering, as if every soul in London had turned out to celebrate. Flags fluttered in bright lashings of red, white, and blue from every window. The bells of St. Paul’s, of Parliament, of Westminster, every bell that had been silenced during the war, rang out in joyous cacophony. The sound of maroons, mortar flares firing in triumph, resounded down the rainy street. And now the soldiers began to cheer in response, to embrace one another and pound each other on the back, to weep without shame. Jamie felt a hand slip into his, and turned to face Jim.

Jim embraced him and held him close. Neither spoke. 

It was the end of a long and weary road. The war had ended.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A beautiful recording of Tom Hiddleston reading John Keats' _Bright Star_ can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkFs6eXbCgs).


	11. You dream long liturgies of our devotion

You made me glad; and I can still return  
To you, the haven of my lonely pride:  
But I am sworn to murder those illusions  
That blossom from desire with desperate beauty:  
And there shall be no falsehood in our failure;  
Since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done,  
And I’ll not hide it, though our heaven be hell.

\---Siegfried Sassoon, _The Imperfect Lover_

 

*

 

“Oh, come on, you…bugger.” Gritting his teeth in frustration, Jamie twisted his arm up and pulled. “God damn you, you bloody arse… _fuck_!”

The snap mechanism refused to budge, and Jamie closed his eyes and sighed. He’d been through a war and killed God only knew how many enemy soldiers and had been decorated by the King himself, but in the eternal battle against his own wardrobe, he was the clear loser, vanquished by a small silver cufflink and reduced to gutter profanities. He sat at his dressing table and propped his elbow on it to resume the fight, and glanced up at a knock on the door. “Come!”

“Jamie? It’s Jim.” Jim’s voice was muffled outside his dressing room door. “Are you decent? Cora said it was all right to come up.”

“Hang on, old man. Won’t be a minute. I’ve got to get this bloody thing…on.” Jamie tried to snap the cufflink on again and failed.

“Anything I can help you with?” Jim sounded amused.

“No, I’m determined to get this if it kills me. Father and I are sharing a valet, and Father’s got him right now, and I can’t –“ Jamie tried to snap the link again. “I can’t get the blasted thing to work. I can field-strip and reassemble a pistol in no time flat, why can’t I work this? God damn it!”

“Cufflink?”

Jamie scowled. “Listen here, old man, I can hear you laughing. You needn’t stifle it. Besides, it’s just this one confounded pair. I never seem to have trouble with the others.”

“Come out and let me help you.”

“Oh, all right.” Jamie heaved himself up from the chair and took an anxious look at his reflection in the cheval mirror. “Now look, Jim. When I come out, you mustn’t laugh.”

“Why? Have you accidentally clipped the cufflink to your nose?”

“Oh, how very droll. No, I have not. Promise you won’t laugh.”

“I’m not sure I can promise that.”

“Then I won’t come out.”

Jim was openly laughing now. “But you’ll miss the party!”

“Oh, what a shame.” Jamie couldn’t help smiling himself. “Really a tragedy. And I was so looking forward to it.”

“Come out now or I’m coming in.”

“Very well.” Jamie put his hand on the knob and swung the door open. “I’d have been ready sooner but for the damned cufflinks.”

Dashing in evening dress, Jim was leaning nonchalantly against a chair, his arms folded, but when he saw Jamie, his mouth dropped open. “Jamie –“

“You promised you wouldn’t laugh.” Jamie held up a warning finger.

A broad smile created tiny lines at the corners of Jim’s eyes, but he didn’t laugh. “Oh, my heavens.”

“Don’t say it. It looks terrible.”

“Not in the _least_.” Jim moved closer and stared. “It’s…it’s extraordinary. I hardly recognise you!”

Jamie felt the blush creeping up his neck. “Why? Because I look like a fifteen-year-old boy?”

“You do look a bit younger, though not fifteen.” Jim reached out and delicately traced a finger over Jamie’s newly shaven upper lip. “Thank the Lord for His infinite mercies.” He peered at Jamie’s face. “In fact, I think it’s very becoming, this new look.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. I look absurd.” Jamie dropped his gaze in abashment. Jim was still staring at him intently.

“I’m not lying. I think you’re handsomer than ever. I’m curious, though – what made you do it?” 

_What indeed?_ It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary that had prompted it – not at first. He’d been shaving, the usual efficient, mechanical process that was his daily routine, when he’d got a glimpse of himself in the mirror and leant forward to examine his reflection.

His parents had had electric lights installed in every room of the house, and the glare was unnerving, showing every droplet of water and bath-reddened patch of flesh where once there had been a dim but soothing glow. As he stared at himself, he saw new lines finely etched into the skin on his forehead, at the corners of his eyes, the startling prominence of his cheekbones and the hollows in his cheeks, a vague hint of shadows beneath his eyes that never seemed to diminish no matter how much sleep he’d had, and a different expression – fatigue, sorrow? – haunting his countenance. He thought of the regimental photographs of himself in the library, in Jim’s parlour. He hadn’t excessive vanity, but it was as if he hadn’t looked in a mirror in four years. Surely he had, at least once in a while. Surely he’d have noticed the gradual alchemy of war and illness unfolding itself onto his features, transforming him from a fresh-faced, battle-ready young major into the too-thin, too-pale, weary soul staring into the looking glass.

Impulsively, he raised the blade and sheared off half his mustache. He wetted, lathered, and methodically removed every trace of hair from his upper lip, then stared at himself, dismayed.

Younger, yes, but too vulnerable, too uncertain. Too girlish, with that deep bow and full lower lip. Too naked; the fatigue seemed sharper now. And too bloody late to realise that a swipe of a razor couldn’t undo four years of hell.

“I thought it would be a bit of a change,” he said to Jim. “I’m rather regretting it now. I look wretched, like a drowned rat.”

“No. You don’t.” Jim rested two fingers against Jamie’s chin and gently tilted his face to one side. He bit his lip. “I never realised how exquisite your mouth is.” Jim leant close and whispered in Jamie’s ear. “You’ve been hiding it all this time.”

The blood burned hot in Jamie’s face. “It’s not –“

“And I’m going to have it later,” Jim said softly. “At my leisure, and to my heart’s content.” He pulled back and gave Jamie a winsome smile.

Jim’s voice and the movement of lips against his ear and the unmistakable intent in his eyes shot straight to Jamie’s prick. He blinked and tried to swallow, but all at once his throat seemed full of sand. “Good God,” he managed in a hoarse croak.

“So let’s get that cufflink sorted and dash off to the party.”

“Can’t we skip it?” Jamie implored. “Go back to your flat and get straight to –“

Jim laughed. “Nothing doing, as the Yanks say. Come on, Colonel, your chariot awaits.”

 

*

 

Jamie and Jim descended a flight of dark stairs and passed through two sets of velvet curtains into a raucous din of music and laughter, a crush of bodies in frantic motion, and a fug composed of the mingled odours of cigarette and cigar smoke, a hundred different clashing perfumes, and the pervasive scent of gin. Jamie squinted in the dimness and started abruptly as someone with extraordinarily strong arms grabbed him from behind, pinning him tightly. “Christ!”

“Jamie!” 

“Who the hell is that?” Jamie demanded, twisting his head round. 

His assailant let him go and spun him round, and Jamie scowled darkly at Billy Thorpe. “Good Christ, warn a chap before you do that! I nearly punched you in the teeth.” He shook Billy’s hand. “Thanks for the invitation. What sort of place is this? We got lost looking for the address.”

“Oh, Charlotte and I hired it out. Charlotte had some sort of mad longing to have a party in Soho, so a party in Soho we shall have. It’s not a patch on St. James, but it’s a lark nonetheless. _Nostalgie de la boue_ , don’t you know? Or something. Who knows with that girl.” Billy, who had the powerful build of the rugby enthusiast he was, clapped Jamie on the shoulder and then turned to Jim with an outstretched hand, his diamond shirt studs winking in the dingy room. “And you brought a pal! Smashing. Introduce us.”

Jamie did. “Saved my life back in Flanders. Got shot for his pains, too.”

Billy shook his head. “You risked your neck for this silly sod?”

“He was my commanding officer. I was afraid I’d get demoted if I didn’t.” Jim winked at Jamie.

“Ah, quite right. Well done, old boy. I say, you’re not the same Jim Nicholls who worked in the War Office with Dickie Hedrick?”

“Yes! He’s a friend of yours?”

“Oh, God, yes. Dickie and I are OCs, don’t you know?”

Jim looked puzzled. “OCs?”

“Old Carthusians,” Jamie explained. “They both went to Charterhouse. Nearly got the boot, too, so I heard.” He nudged Billy in the ribs.

“Don’t believe a word of it, it’s none of it true. Anyhow, Dickie was full of praise for you, said you were a really good egg, and any friend of Jamie’s –“ Billy smote Jim on the arm. “Look here, there’s a set-up in the corner, gin and plonk and all that. Drink up, chaps. Oh, there’s Charlie.” He nodded over Jamie’s shoulder.

Jamie wheeled and gaped. Charlotte Thorpe was moving toward them, but she looked altogether different from the last time Jamie had clapped eyes on her. Her blonde curls had been cropped as short as a boy’s, she wore coal-black paint around her eyes, like a film temptress, and her lips had been painted a deep, glistening scarlet. She was dressed – if that indeed was the word for so skimpy a garment – in a glittering grey chemise that barely grazed the bottom of her knees and left her arms entirely bare, and her shoes and cobwebby stockings were silver. 

“Jamie!” Charlotte dashed forward and enveloped Jamie in a tight embrace, giving him a heady rush of perfume. “It’s marvellous to see you. Oh, and you shaved your mustache! Thank heavens, you’re much handsomer without it. Much more modern, less…military.”

“Charlotte.” Jamie held her away. “Dear me, you look different.”

Charlotte batted her eyes and laughed. “You always did know how to give a lady a compliment. It’s all quite daring, don’t you think?” She wielded a long cigarette holder in one jewelled hand. “Have you got a cigarette, darling?”

“Why, yes –“ Jamie fumbled for his cigarette case. “Charlotte, may I present my dear friend James Nicholls? Captain Nicholls was with my first cavalry regiment. Jim –“

“Jim Nicholls!” Charlotte beamed and held out her hand. “Yes, Jamie told me about your bravery last time I saw him. How do you do?”

“I’m afraid Jamie’s given me rather an intimidating build-up,” Jim said, bowing over her hand. “But it’s an honour to meet you, Miss Thorpe.”

“Jamie never said how divinely attractive you were.” Charlotte bent so Jamie could light her cigarette.

Jamie was surprised at the jab of possessiveness in his stomach as Charlotte flirted with Jim. And Jim, ever sweet and accommodating, responded – not flirtatiously, not exactly, but with his customary warmth and sparkle. _Bloody hell._

Charlotte had linked her arm through Jim’s. “I hear you have a gloriously pretty sister. Why haven’t you brought her?”

“She’d adore a party like this,” Jim replied with a grin. “I think my parents might be scandalised, though.”

“Well, they don’t have to know, do they? Oh! There’s a marvellous ragtime. Do you dance, Jim?”

“Yes, certainly.” Jim grinned over his shoulder at Jamie as Charlotte led him away, and it was all Jamie could do to keep from folding his arms over his chest like some sort of curmudgeonly Victorian. _Steady on. Wouldn’t you rather he got on well with people?_

“Let me drag you round a bit, Jamie, meet up with some of the old guard.” Billy urged.

Jamie allowed himself to be dragged, and soon found himself chatting with a group of young men he’d known through school, through friends, through the social circuit. On the surface they seemed carefree in their new, slimly cut evening clothes, their modish hairstyles and in the way they wielded their drinks and cigars or cigarettes, still young, still confident and graceful. But if one looked closer, there was a different truth imprinted upon them: a darting, anxious glance here and there, a trembling hand, a laugh that spiraled upward toward hysteria. And on other faces, the same weariness Jamie had seen in the mirror, a resigned acceptance of a world that had changed utterly, an insouciance they would never again possess except superficially, a melancholy knowledge that they had trodden a downward path that was proving difficult to ascend again. And of course, there were faces missing. Far too many faces.

“Who’s the chap Charlotte’s dancing with?” Edwin Hollis-Barton wanted to know.

“Friend of mine,” Jamie said. “Jim Nicholls.”

“Mm. I say, he’s quite a splendid dancer, isn’t he? Not very sporting to monopolise Charlie like that, though, is it? I’ve half a mind to poach.”

Jamie drew on his cigarette to stifle a smile. “Charlotte mightn’t approve, old man. She looks like she’s having a jolly time.”

“She does, doesn’t she. You don’t think he’d be belligerent, do you? I’d quite like to cut a rug with her. Look at those legs!”

Instead, Jamie gazed at Jim, his flushed, laughing face, his shining hair. “Quite nice indeed,” he murmured.

“Well, maybe I’ll have a go later. Why do you reckon nobody’s cut in yet? He’s not keen on her, is he?”

“No,” Jamie said. “I shouldn’t think he is.”

“Oh, good,” Edwin replied with a satisfied nod, and then clapped Jamie on the arm. “Heard you won the V.C. – well done!”

“Thanks, Ned.”

“Awfully good news, Jamie. Awfully good. Glad one of our crew distinguished himself. Oh, God – did you hear about Ronnie Colborne?”

Jamie turned to Edwin. “No. What?”

“Not good news, I’m afraid. He’s in the b – in some sanatorium, I gather. A sort of rest home for officers. Spoke to Pickles Tremaine about him – Pickles said he’d gone a bit…you know, not quite right in the head.”

“Christ,” Jamie muttered.

“There but for the grace of God go the rest of us,” Edwin said. He gazed vacantly out at the floor full of madly gyrating couples. “Can’t blame him, really. Sometimes I dream about it, you know. I see things…terrible things that happened to chaps I knew and so on, and I’m quite powerless to help – to do a blasted thing about it.” He took a long draught of his drink and tried to smile at Jamie, but couldn’t manage more than a grimace. “And I wake up covered in sweat and wanting to scream. You don’t think I’m barmy, do you?”

“No, Ned,” Jamie replied quietly. “I think that happens to most of us.”

“That’s a relief. It’s rather a dirty secret, those dreams. I wondered if I wasn’t alone, and reckoned that these other chaps must be stronger than I am. Maybe they just hide it all a bit better.” The corners of his mouth twisted in an attempted smile once more. “I think I might try looking for someone to dance with after all, Jamie. I’ll be seeing you.” He nodded and walked away.

Jamie watched him go and then peered back at Jim and Charlotte. They were dancing some sort of improvised tango, elbows out and knees flexing, and they were laughing uproariously, to the delight of the crowd that had gathered round them.

“Jealous?”

Jamie stiffened. He didn’t bother to turn to see the speaker, whose voice was as familiar as his own, and kept his demeanour as nonchalant as possible. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that your pal Jim appears to be having a grand time with Charlotte,” Philip said, throwing an arm round Jamie’s shoulder. His breath smelled pungently of gin. “Stealing a march on you, wouldn’t you say?”

“No,” Jamie replied. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. Bloody slippery of him.”

“What are you doing here?” Jamie asked. “I thought you were in Selkirk. Father said you weren’t due back until March.”

Philip laughed and took a swallow of his drink, which appeared to be pure unadulterated gin. “Don’t let’s mention Father. I’m in his bad books right now. Murchison’s, too. Everyone’s cross with me, except Mother and you.”

Jamie contained a derisive snort. “Why? What happened?”

“A little hunting mishap. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Jamie found he didn’t want to know, and turned his attention back to Jim. 

“Quit gazing and cut in, sprat.”

“I’m not jealous, for God’s sake.”

“Then you’re a fool. Can’t think what you see in him, anyhow.”

Jamie wanted to throw off Philip’s arm, but refrained from moving. “He’s a good friend, and a kind and decent man. Perhaps those qualities aren’t fashionable enough for you, but they suit me.”

“And that’s enough for you, I suppose. Kind and decent.”

Jamie scowled and shrugged Philip’s arm off his shoulder, heedless of the consequences. Unsurprisingly, Philip teetered a bit before righting himself. “What the hell do you mean by that? Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Well, come off it. He’s not really our sort, is he?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jamie breathed. “The war really taught you nothing, did it?”

“ _Au contraire,_ it taught me a great deal. Some things oughtn’t to be changed, you know.” Philip shrugged, a slow, sinuous movement of his shoulders. “Blood always tells, you know. A real stand-up chap wouldn’t be dancing with Charlotte when his pal’s keen on her. Though I must admit she looks like she’s gagging for it, doesn’t she? That dress – she might as well be naked. Christ.” He grinned.

“I haven’t got a notion of pairing off with Charlotte,” Jamie snapped. “Even so, I’ll thank you not to malign her or Jim. They don’t deserve your filthy remarks.”

Philip shook his head sorrowfully. “One doesn’t pair thoroughbreds with scrubs, sprat, no matter how handsome the scrub.”

“You’re utterly ridiculous,” Jamie replied coldly. “And I think you should go home and dry out before you make a fool of yourself.”

“Don’t get sanctimonious on me.” With slow deliberation Philip took another drink and narrowed his eyes at Jamie over the rim of the glass.

“Hello there.” 

Jamie turned to see Jim, mopping his brow with a snowy handkerchief and looking from Jamie to Philip with a trace of anxiety in his eyes. “How was the dancing?”

“Oh, splendid! Charlotte’s a marvellous dancer. Lots of vim and vigour in that girl.”

“You’re certainly energetic, the pair of you,” Philip observed. “What are we to make of this extraordinary camaraderie?”

“A mutual love of ragtime, I think. Jamie’s not so keen on it, are you, Jamie?” Jim flashed Jamie a smile.

“It’s growing on me, thanks to you,” Jamie admitted, and pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. “I think I still prefer Beethoven, though.”

“But you can’t dance to Beethoven, can you?” Philip said. “Not with modern young ladies like Charlie. Modern young ladies with sizeable incomes.” He took another drink, smiled at Jim, and teetered back and forth.

“Philip,” Jamie said.

“Well, Miss Thorpe chucked me in favour of a younger and handsomer model,” Jim said, indicating the dance floor, where Charlotte was swanning about with a young and almost girlishly beautiful young man, unfamiliar to Jamie. “And a better dancer, too, I dare say.”

“Still, you seem to have won her admiration. I call that very ambitious indeed.”

Jim’s amiable smile began to fray at the edges. “I’m not certain I’m following you….”

“There’s quite a bit of expectation that comes with wooing a girl like that. You realise you’d be trapped in Yorkshire half your life, don’t you? Not the most thrilling existence – church fetes and jumble sales are about as madcap as things get up there. You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who would much enjoy country life.”

“I wouldn’t, as it happens,” Jim said.

“Shut up, Philip,” Jamie barked. “Jim, I’ve got a really dreadful headache. Would you mind if we left? Or if you’d like to stay –“

“No,” Jim said. He regarded Philip with eyes that held none of their customary warmth. “I think we might have outstayed our welcome. Come on, we’ll go find a cab.”

“You’re going to just let him drag you out, Jamie?” Philip drawled. “Thought you had more backbone than that. He poaches your girl, orders you about, and then drags you off – what in God’s name is wrong with you? What sort of friend is that?” He tilted his head to one side and stared at Jamie curiously. 

A familiar rush of helpless anger flooded Jamie’s veins like freezing water and held him paralysed. Philip hadn’t changed a whit. There could be no-one of worth who existed independent of his presence, no further discussion of a topic Philip felt was closed, no situation that could not be subjected to his absolute governance. He was the human embodiment of death by a thousand cuts; it was amazing how swiftly that knowledge returned and lodged itself deep into Jamie’s heart. But below his anger simmered a reserve of fear; despite his drunkenness and obvious snobbery, Philip was far from stupid, and the speculative light in his eyes alarmed Jamie. Eventually, Philip might work things out, and Jamie was unprepared for that.

“I’m the one who wants to leave,” Jamie replied brusquely. “Come along, Jim. Billy and Charlotte won’t miss us.” He pivoted and marched out of the room, Jim close on his heels. They went through the velvet curtains, back up the stairs, and outside, where motor-cars crowded the kerbs up and down the length of the street.

“Sir!”

Jamie turned and saw Murchison waving his cap. He changed direction, gave Jim a gentle nudge, and walked toward the driver. “Good evening, Murchison.”

“Evening, sir. Is Mr. Philip on his way up?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“On your way home, sir?”

“Yes,” Jamie said. “Can you give us a lift and come back for Philip, Murchison?”

“Of course, sir. Hop in.”

Jamie traded a quick smile with Jim and climbed into the back seat. The evening was perceptibly cooler, and Jamie took the lap rug from the seat and spread it over their knees. “Thanks, Murchison. Saves us the trouble of finding a cab.”

“Not at all, sir. Shall I drop Captain Nicholls in Hampstead first?”

“I’ll be accompanying him,” Jamie replied coolly.

There was a beat and a half of silence, in which Jamie easily registered Murchison’s disapproval. “Very good sir,” Murchison replied in a smoothly distilled blend of professional disinterest and unspoken personal remonstration. 

Jamie sighed and glanced at Jim, who looked away from him, out the window. Jamie slipped his hand beneath the lap rug and caressed Jim’s thigh in an attempt at comfort. It worked; Jim turned back to Jamie, slid his own hand beneath the rug and into Jamie’s, and his smile lightened Jamie’s heart and diminished the very real headache that was beginning to throb behind his eyes. Jim _was_ decent, and honest, and kind, and Jamie realised that his happiness, his very life, had been in the safest of hands for years. Damn what anyone else thought.

They sat in silence on the way to Hampstead. Jamie spoke at last when the motor rolled to a stop in front of Jim’s flat. “Thank you, Murchison.”

“Shall I collect you when I drive Mr. Philip home, sir?”

“No need to get out, Murchison. Jim,” Jamie said, “Go on in, I’ll join you in a moment.” He waited until Jim exited the motor-car and leaned up toward the front seat. “Well?”

Murchison didn’t turn round. “Yes, sir?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Out with it.”

A deep sigh escaped Murchison’s chest. “It’s not my place to say, sir.”

Jamie closed his eyes briefly. “I’ve asked you to lie by omission. I’m sorry for it. If you feel that you need to unburden yourself to my parents…all I can do is beg you not to, Murchison. You know the havoc it would wreak in the household. Please.”

“Captain Nicholls seems a nice young man, sir.”

“So I’m the corrupting influence, am I? Interesting.”

“Now, sir, I never said that.” Murchison turned in his seat, and Jamie watched him intently, the weathered planes of his face, the hands, now encased in smart leather gloves, that had guided him so patiently through step after step of horsemanship. “You don’t want me to lie to you, sir. I’ve never done that and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Even to spare my feelings?”

Murchison’s seamed countenance cracked in a wry smile. “You want me to sit here and tell you it’s right? I won’t do that, sir. Can’t. That doesn’t mean much, though. A few days ago your brother took one of the horses out at night when he was in his cups. They went up the crag, and you can imagine what happened.”

“Oh, God,” Jamie murmured. “I probably can.”

“I had to shoot the poor beastie myself. Sweet, gentle thing, not two years old, and Mr. Philip treated her like a hoop and bloody stick. He’s a cruel one, he is, and I’ve done my best to keep him on a curb and chain, but you know how he is.”

“Yes. Incorrigible.”

“And for my money, cruelty’s worse than buggery, but that still doesn’t make buggery right. And none of that matters just the same. You see what I mean, sir?”

“Not altogether, no.”

“What I mean is that I don’t think it’s right, but it doesn’t matter much what I think because you’re a man grown and you can do as you please. I’ve known you since you were a wee bairn in nappies, Mr. Jamie, and I’ve known other lads who were…you know, like you, and it never turned out well for them. You’re a good sort, sir, and you don’t deserve to be unhappy. Neither does Captain Nicholls, I reckon.”

Jamie folded his arms on the back of the seat and propped his chin on them. He sighed a little. “You never have lied to me, have you?”

Murchison shook his head. He stared at Jamie. “You shaved, sir.”

“Not even Philip noticed,” Jamie said with a smile.

“Well, that’s Mr. Philip for you, I expect. I’ve said my piece, sir.”

“I appreciate your candour. I always have.” Jamie hesitated. “Are you going to tell Mother and Father?”

Murchison gave Jamie a tired smile. “Sir, I wouldn’t know how to begin that conversation. So no, they won’t hear it from me. But I expect they’ll have to know by and by.”

“I’d be happy to keep them in the dark forever,” Jamie said. Impulsively, he stuck out his hand, and Murchison shook it. Jamie was conscious of a new frailty in the man’s grip, the bunching of tendons and veins beneath the leather gloves, the onset of age. “Thank you.”

“Plenty of lovely lasses out there, sir.” Murchison gave him a searching look. 

“But only one Jim Nicholls. Good night, Murchison.”

The front door opened as soon as Jamie reached it – Jim must have been watching from the window. Without speaking, Jim stood aside to let Jamie in and then closed the door with a quiet click. “Your driver doesn’t appear to think much of me.” He offered Jamie a wry smile without any of its customary twinkling good humour.

“It’s not you at all, Jim,” Jamie said wearily, hanging his hat on the stand. “I’ve disappointed him. He’s known me all my life and I suppose he expected a bit more from me.”

Jim’s shoulders sagged a bit. “I see.” 

“Oh, God. That’s not what I – Jim, please.” Jamie reached out and caught Jim’s arm, pulling him close. “I didn’t mean that. It was bloody stupid of me. Forgive me, I’m tired and….” He wrapped his arms round Jim, aware of the stiffness in Jim’s body, and stroked the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Your brother doesn’t appear to think much of me either.” Jim’s voice was muffled in Jamie’s shoulder.

“I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” He kissed Jim’s cheek, dismayed that Jim’s body still refused to yield to him. 

“He’s cruel to you. I hate that. I wanted to hit him in the mouth tonight.”

“Oh, I want to hit him too, but I’d just be giving him ammunition for a scandal. I can’t.” The words ‘neither can you’ hung unspoken in the air.

“I know,” Jim sighed, and pulled away. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and slumped against the wall. “I suppose this is just the first taste of it, isn’t it? The hiding, the deception, the fear that we might be exposed. At least they can’t hang us for it anymore.” He let out a bleak little laugh.

“There’s a chap I know – Roo Woodmere. He’s…one of us, I suppose you’d say. Nobody’s ever bothered him about it. He’s a quiet sort, has a flat in Knightsbridge. Lives there with another chap, a solicitor I think. Respectable. I think if we’re discreet, we can manage the same sort of life.”

“But what about your parents? And mine, for that matter? They won’t simply accept this. It might well kill them, in fact.” Jim stared at Jamie, naked pleading in his eyes. “I’m not backing out, you mustn’t think that. I love you. I don’t want to be parted from you. But I’d be a liar if I said that I’d thought it all through.” He ran his hands through his neatly pomaded hair, sending it awry. “And I suppose I want everything to be settled all at once, which isn’t possible. It’s only that – seeing your brother tonight, watching him bully you – I heard him, you know. You were so intent on each other, you didn’t see me. But I listened, and he’s dreadful. Dreadful, Jamie.”

Jamie winced. “It’s nothing. I know he’s an unpleasant bastard, but I don’t see him often –“

“If he finds out, he’ll hurt you.” Jim clenched his fists. “I don’t care what he says to me – I’ve a thick enough skin. But I can’t bear to see him wound you, not when he hasn’t a shred of honour himself. If he doesn’t try to ruin you immediately, he’ll dangle it over your head and you’ll be at his mercy. I’d say we should leave, but…I love London. I’ve made friends, and I’m fond of my work, and it’s your home as well – oh, I don’t know.” He laughed and dragged his hands through his hair again. “I want to hear that everything’s going to be fine, when I know damned well it won’t.”

Jamie risked a step forward, then another. Tentatively, he rested his hands on Jim’s shoulders and gently eased him backward, pressing him against the wall. Jim’s hands flew up and caught Jamie’s wrists, but he didn’t push Jamie away. Jamie saw the fear in his eyes, and his heart ached. “I can’t say that. I don’t know if it’s true.” He glanced down at the rug they stood on, a threadbare flowered carpet of still-cheery green and pink and yellow, one of Mrs. Nicholls’ cast-offs. The sight of it made his heart ache more, though he couldn’t have said why, and he swallowed against a tightness in his throat and met Jim’s gaze once more. “And as much as I want to, I don’t know if I can protect you against scorn and ridicule.”

Jim bit his lip, and his eyes resumed some of their old sparkle. “My dearest Jamie,” he said softly, and unclasped his hands from Jamie’s wrists to cradle Jamie’s face. “How gallant you are. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cause you pain. It’s not your protection I need.” He leant forward and kissed Jamie’s mouth, chastely at first, merely pressing his lips against Jamie’s for a long moment. Then he gently suckled on Jamie’s upper lip, then his lower, tasting the silken inner rim, exploring him thoroughly, at last prising his mouth open and kissing him fully, returning now and then to nibble and suckle at Jamie’s lips. He pulled back, flushed. “They’re as glorious as I suspected.”

Jamie was breathless with arousal. “Jim –“ He scarcely recognised his own voice.

“I want you.” Jim slid his hand down to rest between Jamie’s legs. “All of you.”

Jamie couldn’t speak. They’d availed themselves of so much pleasure, but they hadn’t yet engaged in full coitus. Jamie assumed they’d get round to it eventually, but he was too shy to request it, and Jim seemed content to go on the way they had for some months. He nodded, his pulse racing. 

Jim took Jamie’s hand and led him into the bedroom. “Back in a moment.” He stepped out and returned with a towel and a tin of hair pomade, then closed the door and leant against it. “Take off your clothes, my love.”

Hands shaking, Jamie complied, stripping off each piece neatly and folding it over the back of the little wooden chair tucked beside the wardrobe. Tailcoat, watered-silk waistcoat, white tie, braces, shoes, trousers. He struggled with the shirt studs and finally worked them free, ignored the cufflinks and dragged the shirt off. He pulled off his stockings and dropped them to the floor, then unbuttoned his underwear and wriggled out of it, gasping as he grazed his hard prick. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jim watching him intently. “Aren’t you going to –“

“I want you to undress me.”

“You’re driving me mad.”

“I want you to undress me, and then take me.” Jim dropped the towel and pomade onto the bed, moved close and lightly kissed Jamie’s mouth, then sank to his knees. He grasped Jamie’s hips and traced the tip of his tongue up Jamie’s erect cock.

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Jamie groaned. “How can I undress you when you –“

“Shh.” Jim moved his lips over the sensitive flesh, now and then flicking his tongue out, teasing at Jamie with wet warmth, then finally wrapping his mouth round the head of Jamie’s cock and suckling.

Jamie threaded his fingers through Jim’s curls and pressed him closer. Jim obediently opened his mouth wider, then gagged a little, but that only fuelled Jamie’s excitement. “Harder,” he whispered. He felt Jim’s tongue sliding back and forth, around his cock, his mouth full and wet, and watched as Jim struggled to take him in fully. “Let go,” he rasped. “Jim, let go.”

Jim pulled back and stared up at Jamie. “What is it?”

“Get up.”

“All right.” Jim got to his feet and stood before Jamie, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lovely, passionate mouth slightly open.

Jamie took Jim’s chin in his hand and kissed him, savouring the taste of Jim’s mouth, drawing him closer, resting his fingers against the rapid pulse in his neck. He slipped his hand down and deftly unfastened Jim’s tie, urging his coat off with his other hand. He pulled away to unfasten Jim’s waistcoat and undo the tiny pearl shirt studs, less trouble than his own. He felt between Jim’s legs, pressing against the hardness there. “Are you certain you want me to?”

“Yes.”

Getting the rest of Jim’s clothes off seemed to take hours, but at last it was done. Jim stood before him, naked, his lean body lightly silvered with sweat. “Pull the bedclothes down.”

Jim yanked the covers and sheet down and carefully draped the towel over the bottom sheet. He sat on the bed and turned the pomade tin over in his hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“What?” With an effort, Jamie dragged his gaze from Jim’s hard prick, flushed with blood. He gave his own prick a languorous stroke, unable to help himself.

“What would you like me to do? Do you want me on my back, or –“

“I don’t know,” Jamie confessed. “I’ve never –“

“Neither have I. I don’t know what’s best. I suppose it would be easiest if I were on my belly.” With a shuddering breath, he set the tin on the bedside table and lay full length on the bed, his head pillowed on his arms, his legs spread apart.

Trembling in earnest, Jamie climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Jim’s parted legs. He leant over Jim’s body and retrieved the pomade, opening the tin and swiping some of the greasy stuff onto his fingers. Cautiously, as if he’d never touched himself before, he grasped his cock and slid his hand back and forth, coating it with the substance. He reached down and caressed Jim’s arse, soft skin over taut muscles, moving in circles, echoing their curves with his fingertips. His breath grew sharp and short as he stroked, finally spreading them apart and positioning himself, then pushing inside. Immediately Jim’s muscles tightened, repelling him.

“Oh –“

“Am I hurting you?”

“No. No. Don’t stop. I’ll try to relax. Oh, God, Jamie. Please don’t stop.”

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you.”

A shaky laugh broke from Jim’s throat. “Yes, sir.”

Jamie grasped Jim’s hips. “Raise up. Just a bit.” Jim obediently climbed to his knees, his head still on his arms, and Jamie tried again, holding on to Jim’s narrow hips. He pushed in part way and waited, watching the rapid rise and fall of Jim’s exquisite long back. “All right?”

“Yes. More.”

Jamie pushed in further, his body shaking as he held himself back. He wanted to thrust deeply, to drive himself all the way in. He concentrated on holding still, watching Jim’s body, the delicate knobs of his spine, the shift of his shoulder blades, the helpless curling and uncurling of his fingers in the pillow. It only enflamed him further; he pushed deeper, his thighs braced against Jim’s, his fingers digging into Jim’s flesh.

Beneath him, Jim moaned.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little, but – don’t stop, for God’s sake don’t –“ Jim moaned again and pushed back. “Ah –“

Jamie pushed deeper and felt himself entirely enclosed in a tight, hot grip that almost undid him. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, then pulled back, shuddering as Jim’s muscles contracted around his cock. He thrust forward slowly, sweat stinging his eyes, and moved one hand between Jim’s thighs, curling around his hard prick.

Jim let out a hoarse cry and pushed back harder. Jamie slid back, then forward again, engulfed in delicious heat, establishing a rhythm that quickened rapidly as their bodies ground together, rocking back and forth, undulating, slippery and hot against each other. Jim cried out again, stifling the noise against his arm, and Jamie felt the muscles surrounding him seize and tighten, and a warm sticky trickling in his hand. He took his hand from Jim’s cock and grasped his hips again, thrusting deeper and deeper still, shoving himself forward, and at last released with a shuddering groan. 

They stayed still for a long moment. At last, Jamie pulled himself free and collapsed next to Jim, who immediately put his arms round Jamie and pulled him close. Jamie buried his face in Jim’s neck, nuzzling the hollow of his throat, tasting salt. “I didn’t hurt you too badly?”

“It did hurt,” Jim said, stroking Jamie’s hair. “Quite a lot at first. And I think I shall be awfully sore tomorrow, but I don’t care. For a moment, when you…it was amazing. I’ve never felt anything like it. I thought I would die from the pleasure of it. Let me look at you.”

Jamie brought his head level with Jim’s, resting on the pillow. “I need a bath.”

“Shall we both take one?”

“I doubt we’d fit in the tub together.”

“Nonsense, it’s huge. What a smashing idea, Jamie.” Jim rolled out of bed with a groan. “Come on, slugabed. Get up.” 

“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Jamie grumbled, and heaved himself up. His body was sticky with sweat and seed and pomade, though, and a bath would do them both good. He followed Jim into the bathroom and watched Jim run the hot water. “It is rather generously sized, isn’t it?”

“Yes, perfect for two. Don’t tell my dad, or he’ll stop making them.” Jim dropped a wink and shut the water off, then closed the bathroom door. “That’ll keep it nice and warm. Hop in.” He stepped into the tub and lowered himself with a sigh.

Jamie got in on the other side and sat, shivering as the hot water enclosed his sweat-chilled body. “Lovely.” He leant back and drew his knees up. “Ah.”

Jim, who had his knees up as well, stretched his legs out, clasping Jamie’s hips. “That’s quite nice.”

“You’ve got a cheek, Captain Nicholls.”

“Plain old Mr. Nicholls now.” Jim smiled, his expression a bit wistful. “Do you know, I never thought I’d miss the army, but –“ He shrugged. “Some bits, anyhow.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. It’s not a bad old life.”

“Not for everyone. Your brother, for example.” 

Jamie shook his head. “The very thought of Philip in the army is a ridiculous one. He only went because he was compelled to. And he didn’t exactly prosper there, if you recall.”

“No, in fact –“ Jim pressed his lips together. “Never mind. I’m sorry I said anything.”

Jamie nudged Jim’s thigh. “I rather envy you, having a job to go to every day. I find myself with time hanging heavy on my hands lately.”

“I could ask about, if you’re interested in publishing.”

“I don’t think that would suit me,” Jamie said. 

“What about the War Office? Surely with most of the men returning to their ordinary lives, there must be something that interests you.”

“I haven’t much patience for paperwork.” Jamie smiled apologetically. “I’m not being terribly helpful, am I?”

“No, no, it’s just as important to know what you _don’t_ want to do, I think, as it is to know what you do want. Not to worry, we’ll sort you out.”

Jamie caressed Jim’s leg, then drew his foot up and began to rub it, pressing his thumbs into the arch. “You must be terribly sore from all that dancing.”

Jim made an incoherent gurgling noise. “Good Lord, where did you learn to do that?” He slid lower in the water. “Don’t stop. Ever.”

Jamie snorted a laugh and began to rub the other foot. He gently bent Jim’s foot back, stretching it, and rubbed the heel, squeezing it. “Like it?”

“If I drowned – which I might – I would die a happy man.” Jim smiled.

Sweet, generous Jim. Jamie thought of Philip’s sneering insults, and his chest tightened with anger. “I’m sorry for Philip’s rudeness tonight.”

“It isn’t your fault. Besides, I thought you leapt to my defence quite bravely.”

“If only,” Jamie muttered. 

“Here. Spin round and I’ll wash your back,” Jim said, sitting up. Jamie obediently turned, and Jamie rubbed soap over his back, scrubbing it gently with a flannel. “Arms up.” He soaped beneath Jamie’s arms, and moved forward, fitting himself against Jamie’s back. “Lean back on me.” He drew the soapy flannel up and down Jamie’s chest and scrubbed his belly, then kissed his ear. “I had a bit of a panic earlier, and I’m sorry about it. I was being utterly unfair to you. I don’t expect you to have answers.”

“But the questions haven’t gone away.”

“No.” Jim fell silent and wordlessly washed Jamie’s arms and thighs. “Shall I wash your hair?”

“Thank you.”

Jim wetted Jamie’s hair and soaped it, moving his fingertips back and forth until Jamie was limp with relaxation. “My parents will disown me when they learn the truth. My father will, at least, and my mother will be forced to go along with him, even if she doesn’t repudiate me in her heart. I reckon I’m trying to get used to the notion. What about your parents?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie murmured. “They’ve never paid me much mind. I expect they’d be quite angry, though I don’t know if they’d disown me altogether. They’ve always muttered sympathetically about my cousin Percy and how badly my aunt and uncle treat him, but it might be another thing entirely to have a son who indulges in the Greek vice.”

Jim chuckled. “’The Greek vice.’ Good God.”

“As if the Greeks were the only ones,” Jamie said.

“The only ones who admitted to it, I suppose.” Jim tilted Jamie’s face upwards with a finger, bent, and kissed his mouth. He pulled back and traced the teardrop-shaped indentation above Jamie’s upper lip. “Yes. I quite like this new look.”

“I’ll keep it, then.” To hell with Philip. And to hell with Jim’s parents, too, if they turned him away. If they wantonly discarded the gift of Jim’s love and affection, they didn’t realise its value and didn’t deserve it in the first place. If there was such a thing as perfect mortal happiness, he had it, deserved or not. In Jim’s arms, he knew paradise; in Jim’s letters and gifts and palpable grace and generosity, he’d found solace to see him through the worst darkness he’d ever known. And as long as he had Jim beside him, he knew he could never be truly unhappy again. Humble gratitude filled his heart. He grasped Jim’s hand and squeezed it.

“Shall we go back to bed?”

Jamie brushed the back of his hand over Jim’s cheek. “Yes, if you answer a question first.”

“Why, of course.”

“Will you grow old with me?”

“Yes.” Jim caught Jamie’s hand and kissed it. “Yes.”

 

*


	12. When I find you in my love's release

I am alive  
Only that I may find you at the end  
Of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,  
Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—  
That all my days are turning toward your kiss;  
That all expectancy awaits the deep  
Consoling passion of your eyes, that keep  
Their radiance for my coming, and their peace  
For when I find in you my love’s release. 

\---Siegfried Sassoon, _Parted_

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v57/splix/cumberbatch/?action=view&current=86578bcf.jpg)

 

*

 

On some days, it was necessary to remind oneself that the beauty of England’s green and pleasant land was entirely due to the profligacy of England’s grey and endless rain, and it was a far more challenging task in the city, where the green and pleasant was seldom in evidence. Jamie crossed Sloane Square in haste, wielding his umbrella against the wet, sooty deluge hammering upon it and the street, splashing his shoes and trousers, and streaking the already soot-stained buildings with charcoal-sketch shades of black and grey. It was practically high summer, but Jamie wore his trench-coat against the damp chill. Still, it might have been worse; he could have been thigh-deep in a stinking, mud-filled hole in the ground, desperately fighting to stay alive and kill as many of the enemy as possible. In the vast, confusing scheme of things, a bit of rain wasn’t such a hardship after all.

Jamie had never been able to accuse himself of much introspection before the war, or even a great deal of abstract thought. Yet in its aftermath he found himself if not precisely philosophical, at least more thoughtful, less apt to take the smaller blessings in life for granted. He guessed that in time, that thoughtfulness, like the shedding of a carapace, would most likely lead to new awareness of hurts and discouragements, but measured against the war, those could be surmounted.

He passed the Christian Science church, moving away from the pavement to avoid a tremendous splattering from a passing omnibus, and nearly collided with a man sitting on the church steps, huddled in a wet-weather coat and hat. He began to apologise and saw that the man had no legs. _Poor devil._ “Terribly sorry about that.”

“It’s all right, sir - no harm done. Could you spare a sixpence for a crippled soldier?” The man extended a wet tin cup not overburdened with coin.

“Why, certainly….” Jamie felt in his coat pocket and came up with a half-crown. He’d taken to carrying coins in his pockets of late. There had been more and more of these sad-eyed, polite men crowding the streets, and the sight burdened him with grief and guilt. Philip had been with him once when he’d dropped some change into a man’s cup, and accused him of being a bleeding-heart, but Jamie didn’t care a fig. Philip’s taunts weren’t enough to stop him from what amounted to minuscule acts of charity. “There. God bless you.”

“God bless _you_ , s –“ The man stared up at him uncertainly. “It’s not Major Stewart, is it? Major Jamie Stewart?”

“Yes.” Jamie frowned. The man – quite young, Jamie realised – looked familiar, and had used Jamie’s old rank. All at once he gasped. The young man had been in his lost cavalry regiment. “Peniston! That’s right, isn’t it? Your Christian name escapes me –“

“Alastair. And that’s it exactly, sir. Corporal Ally Peniston, from the 17th.” He offered a hand.

Jamie shook it heartily. “Christ, man, we’d given you up for dead.”

“No, sir! I was captured along with you. Got ill so they stuck me in a ruddy barn to sweat it out, but managed to rally when we were rescued.”

“Rescued? I hadn’t heard. Captain Nicholls – Jim Nicholls, do you remember him?”

“Everyone remembers Captain Nicholls, sir. We thought he was turning up daisies in Flanders.”

“No, he survived. It was the most extraordinary thing.” Jamie hesitated, unsure whether to tell the young man the news of his own rescue. “He was wounded, but he managed a full recovery, and went back to England to work at the War Office.” Jamie became cognizant of the rain cascading down the poor young man’s hat and mackintosh and hastened to shelter him with his own umbrella. “At any rate, he tried to learn the fate of the survivors of the 17th and didn’t have much luck. Most of the chaps who were captured that day were written up as missing, presumed dead. But some of you must have got word home?”

“It’s a bit of a story, sir.”

“I’m on my way to luncheon. Can’t I persuade you to come along? Jim will be there – he’ll be delighted to see you, I’m certain of it.”

Peniston seemed to fold in on himself a bit, and an expression of chagrin fell briefly over his countenance. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. Kind of you to ask, though. I won’t keep you.”

Jamie nodded, suddenly aware of the contrast between his own clothes and Peniston’s shabby state. No smart restaurant would admit him. Chiding himself for his carelessness and wanting to preserve the man’s fragile dignity, he pressed on. “But at least tell me how you were rescued.”

“The jerries were bloody unlucky, that’s all there is to it. It started when you escaped. They came in madder than all hell, tearing up the place looking for you. They thought _we_ were hiding you, as if you’d be daft enough to take shelter among other prisoners. But when we realised what they were raging about and that you’d got out – well, it was as if each one of us had escaped as well. Christ, sir, you never heard such a hullaballoo. We were cheering fit to split the rooftops.”

“That’s…it’s too generous, Peniston. It was Captain Nicholls who rescued me, you know, and we both felt dreadful beyond reckoning that we couldn’t save you all. He got shot liberating _me._ I told the Red Cross of your whereabouts –“

“And they told the battalion who came to our rescue. The truth is we'd never have got out at all if they hadn't turned up, sir. There weren’t a lot of us left – twenty-two when they finally found us. Some of the lads had been shot after you escaped, for inciting rebellion or some such rubbish. Reprisals, sir. Nothing but reprisals.”

Jamie bowed his head. “Dear God.”

“It wasn’t your fault, and you mustn’t feel bad, sir. Those lads went down fighting. Your escape gave us courage. We knew you’d come back for us, or send someone, and you did.” Peniston grinned, a new twinkle in his eyes. “After you did the bolt, we made life hell for the jerries. Sabotaged ‘em every way we could. Stole from them, dug rabbit holes, damaged their kit when they weren’t looking – I think they were ready to hang the lot of us when the West Riding showed up.”

“I’m amazed, Corporal, simply amazed. And I’m astonished that you didn’t lose your life along with your legs if they were only keeping you in a barn whilst you were wounded.”

“Ah, no, that was just a fever, sir. No, I joined up with an artillery company and lost my legs in the first battle of the Somme. Shell got me. Blast my rotten luck anyhow.” Peniston smiled bravely.

“And you were invalided home.” Jamie shook his head in sympathy. “I presume you lost your job.”

“I was a solicitor’s clerk, sir, but a clerk who can’t run errands and dash about isn’t much good. I don’t blame them, really. They did try me for a bit, with a wheelchair, but it wasn’t a success. Too many narrow spaces, and it’s a job climbing ladders in a wheelchair, don’t you know.”

“Haven’t you family who can help you? And what about your pension?”

“Pension’s just enough to keep me in my flat, sir, but not enough to feed me. I've tried looking for a flatmate, but no-one wants to live with a cripple - they're all afraid they'll wind up having to nursemaid me, no matter what I say. As to your first question, my mum died last year. She was the only one I had left. I stop by the Labour Exchange every week, but there are lots of fellows like me, and not jobs enough for all of us. Most firms want able-bodied blokes. Can’t…can’t blame them, like I said.”

Jamie ached for the young man. It was a dire situation for one so young. “Look here, Corporal, can’t I give you some more –“

“Sir,” Peniston said a bit sharply, “that’s kind of you, but I couldn’t accept. Thank you all the same.” He ducked his head. “I know I oughtn’t to be begging, but….” He held his hands up and turned them palm-out, staring at them. “I’m glad my mum’s dead. She’d not be able to hold her head up, seeing me this way. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, or my head…just my legs.” He attempted a smile, but it withered and died at once, and he lowered his hands and stared down at the ground.

Jamie was paralysed by a pity so strong it robbed him of speech and movement. This – this was the reward of the soldier who gave his health and very nearly his life in defence of his country? He wondered about the solicitor who’d sacked the young man – had the work truly been too much, or had it been an embarrassment to have a crippled clerk? They should have been proud to employ him; they should have made accommodations for him. To be reduced to begging – it was more than mortifying, it was unconscionable. How many other soldiers, he wondered, had returned home after exemplary service only to face similar destitution?

A passing pedestrian dropped sixpence into Peniston’s cup. It landed with a jingle, a cheerful-sounding counterpoint to the falling rain.

“God bless you, sir!” Peniston called.

Jamie tried to think of something comforting to say. “Peniston –“

“Mustn’t keep you from your luncheon, sir. It was good to see you again.” Ally Peniston reached a hand out to Jamie. His hand was wet and chilly, but there was strength in it still.

“Look after yourself, Corporal,” Jamie said at last.

“I will, sir. Best of luck to you.”

Jamie nodded abruptly and moved down the street. He had been keenly looking forward to his meal, but his hunger was now nothing so much as a dull knot in his midsection. It occurred to him that he too received some sort of pension because he’d been wounded, but he’d hardly glanced at the paperwork; his father’s banker had given it to him as part of a sheaf of things that had needed signing and he assumed the money was regularly dispatched to his account. He had no idea how much the pension was. If he hadn’t had independent means…judging by Alastair Peniston’s unhappy state, it wasn’t enough to keep body and soul together.

His luncheon companions – Jim and Pansy Nicholls, and Billy and Charlotte Thorpe – were already assembled at the table and bade him a friendly greeting. “Late!” Billy crowed. “Getting slow in your old age, Colonel.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jamie replied. “Took me forever to get here. Have you ordered without me?” He slid into the chair across from Jim and got a wink. Jim had taken to combing marcel waves into his hair, which suited him admirably, in Jamie’s estimation. Jim's extraordinary good looks also attracted a growing number of young women eager to strike up friendship and more – it was vaguely irritating, but Jim managed the feminine attention with his usual kindness and charm, letting them down so gently they hardly knew they’d been refused.

“Just soup,” Jim said. “I ordered you oxtail. I knew you wouldn’t want vichyssoise.”

“Damned right I don’t. Well done, Jim - thanks.”

“Honestly, Jamie, you are the most provincial soul I’ve ever known,” Charlotte said airily, handing him a menu. “How many years did you spend in France?”

“Tinned peas and chicken paste were about the most exotic viands I ate in France,” Jamie returned. “Did you think I spent all my time drifting from restaurant to restaurant in search of the perfect bouchées à la reine, Charlie?”

“I thought everyone above the rank of captain did that,” Charlotte said, with a flash of a smile made extraordinarily vivid by her crimson mouth. “And at least you can pronounce ‘bouchées à la reine’ better than most Englishmen, so your time wasn’t entirely wasted.”

“Charlotte, you are terribly naughty,” Pansy said with a shake of her head. She’d cropped her hair into a bob with a severe fringe and had taken to putting black stuff around her eyes in imitation of Charlotte, with whom she’d become fast friends. Jim had privately expressed some concern to Jamie as Charlotte lived in rather madcap and extravagant style, but he hadn’t the heart to lecture since Charlotte was so obviously fond of her and treated her with enormous affection.

“Jamie knows I’m just teasing him. Don’t you, darling?”

“Of course I do, you goose. Now leave me in peace so I can read the menu.”

The conversation was lively, but Jamie found himself reflecting on Ally Peniston and his plight. When his food came, he ate without much pleasure. The combined cost of their meals likely could have bought the young veteran a month’s worth of food. The elaborate arrangement of drowsy peonies, roses, and ivy on the table would have been at least the cost of tram fare for a week.

“You’re very quiet,” Jim observed during a break in the chatter.

Jamie managed a smile. “Just woolgathering, old man.”

“They must be awfully large bales of wool by now.”

Jamie sighed. “Well, I might as well tell you.” He described his meeting with Peniston, and his disheartening situation.

“I can’t believe they were rescued – that’s marvellous news,” Jim said. “Thank God.”

“Some of them, anyway,” Jamie said. “And poor Peniston didn’t fare so well afterward.”

“How sad,” Pansy said. “Do you think his employers turned him out because they were ashamed of his condition, or do you really think it was because he couldn’t do the work? Surely there must be one or two other clerks to run errands.”

“That was my thought as well,” Jamie said, lighting a cigarette. “The very thought of the former is disgraceful, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. I suppose employers can couch dismissal in whatever terms they like.”

“It’s a pity, all right,” Billy said. “What sort of pension does a crippled soldier get, anyhow?”

“Forty shillings a week,” Jim said quietly. “That’s for a permanently disabling injury.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “Forty – how do you know that?”

“I’ve seen the records.”

“Good Christ,” Billy muttered. “That’s a pittance.”

“There are so many charities for the disabled, though,” Charlotte said. “Can’t he find help with them?”

“Perhaps he’s too proud,” Jamie said.

“He isn’t too proud to beg on the street,” Billy pointed out. “Look here, it’s certainly sad, but there isn’t much you can do for him.”

Jamie stubbed out his cigarette. “I suppose not.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Jim said. “Maybe there’s room amongst all those charities for a sort of private Labour Exchange. Something to help men get back on their feet with dignity, without coddling them or making them feel as if they’re a burden.”

“But how would you do that?” Charlotte wanted to know. 

“Well, I expect one would have to make inquiries with the Labour Ministry. See if they’ve got rehabilitation programmes, getting fellows back to work in jobs they can manage. If they do, improve upon them. If they don’t – invent them. Speak to hospital committees. Gather volunteers.” Jim smiled. “It would take someone who knows how to get things done in an efficient and orderly fashion. Someone imaginative and persuasive and influential.”

Charlotte laughed. “So speaks the brother of our industrious little suffragette.” She patted Pansy’s hand. “Jamie darling, I think he means _you_.”

Jamie blinked. “Me? Start a labour charity?”

“Why not?” Jim asked. “You said you were looking for something to do.”

Pansy nodded. “Like St. Dunstan’s for the blind.”

“Yes, but – I don’t know the first thing about starting something like that. And I wouldn’t say I’m imaginative. You’re being a bit generous.”

“But you know about organisation. Chain of command. Delegation. How to lead fellows. Who says you can’t learn the rest?” Jim ate a spoonful of summer pudding with cream and smiled at Jamie.

Jamie rubbed his chin. The thought immediately appealed, though he was too cautious to say so. He missed the military more than he’d believed possible; he missed the crisp orderly life of a soldier, but the thought of going to some foreign outpost without Jim was inconceivable. To work with crippled men – to help them get back on their feet in practical fashion…. “I’d never thought of it before.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Billy said with a touch of dour humour.

“It would be,” Jamie mused. “Indeed, yes.”

“You’re not actually thinking about going through with it?” Billy demanded. “That is – it’s a worthy cause and all that, Jim, and a fine idea, but think of the time it’ll take.”

Jamie turned to Billy. “Instead of what? Hunting and shooting and dressing up every damned night for another ridiculous dinner or dance?”

Billy shrugged. “Some of those dinners are for charity.”

“And doubtless they cost nearly as much as they raise,” Jamie said. “Look here, Billy, instead of banging on about what an awful idea it is, maybe you should be my first patron. Or better yet, come along and give it all a go with me. Make yourself useful for a change.”

“Oh, God,” Billy said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m useful! Christ, I mucked out my own bloody stables last week – what more do you want from me?”

“I’ll be your first patroness,” Charlotte said softly. She took a quick sip from her wine glass and looked down at the golden liquid as she swirled it around. “When they brought Robin back to England, I went down to visit him, and he – well, if he’d lived, he would have been in a worse state than your Corporal Peniston, let’s say that much. And he didn’t have money, or come from a good family – Mother and Dad never approved of me walking out with him. Said he wouldn’t be able to support me, as if I didn’t have money of my own. As if I cared.” She blinked hard and gave Jamie a watery smile. “If he’d recovered, he’d have needed something like that, Jamie.”

Pansy reached out and pressed Charlotte’s hand. “Oh, darling.”

Charlotte squeezed back and kissed Pansy’s cheek. “It’s…it’s all right, sweetness.” Her smile brightened. “I quite fancy being your first patroness, Jamie. In memory of Robin.”

Jim raised his glass. “To Robin.”

“To Robin,” everyone murmured, and drank.

At length Billy sighed, a great heaving exhalation of breath. “Oh, all right, Bossy Knickers. Count me in. But I’m not going to sit at a bloody desk all day.”

Jamie smiled. “I’d never dream of asking you to do that, old chap.”

“Huh,” Billy muttered, then chuckled. “God, what have you got me into?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Jamie confessed. He glanced at Jim and surreptitiously nudged his foot beneath the table. “But I doubt we’ll be bored.”

 

*

 

“I’m thinking of taking a flat,” Jamie announced at dinner.

Margaret looked up from her crepes. “Why on earth?”

“Splendid idea,” Charles said. “Young fellows should be out on their own for a bit before settling down. Wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you found a place as well, Philip.”

Philip spooned raspberry sauce over his crepe. “I’m quite comfortable here. I’m with Mother – why in God’s name would I want to get some miserable three-room hovel when we’re situated in the centre of things right here? Ridiculous. Besides, I’ve never felt a particular need for a garçonnière. Can’t think why _you_ do, sprat. You live like a monk.”

Jamie refrained from an inelegant snort. “Until Billy and I can find a proper office, I need a room where I can speak with the chaps we’re trying to help, and I doubt Mother and Dad would want crippled soldiers coming and going most of the day.”

Margaret frowned a little. “You make me sound heartless. I’m not. It just makes extra work for the servants, that’s all.”

“Bit off more than you can chew, sprat,” Philip observed triumphantly.

Jamie ignored this, and turned to his mother. “Precisely. I don’t wish to overburden them.”

“Well, I think it’s grand,” Charles said around a mouthful of food. “Where are you thinking of going, Jamie? Some nice flats in Belgravia, so I hear.”

“Actually, I was thinking of Hampstead.”

“Hampstead!” Philip said. “That’s hardly convenient for crippled soldiers. Why not here in the city?”

“There aren’t many crippled soldiers who can afford to live round here,” Jamie pointed out. “Besides, we’ll compensate them for the tram or the tube. And it’s only until we can get an office sorted out, as I said.”

“Hampstead can be quite nice,” Margaret said. “A bit Bohemian, so I understand. Artists and writers and what-not.”

“There’s a flat that’s become available next to Jim Nicholls’ place,” Jamie said. “It’s a quiet neighbourhood, very near the Heath. Might be nice for some of the soldiers to have a green place and ponds and so on. Good for the nerves.”

Charles beamed, polishing his plate with the last of his crepe. “Always knew you had a good deal of common sense, lad. I’m glad to see you put it to use. Told Philip he could do worse than go along with you.”

“No, thank you,” Philip sighed.

Charles appeared not to hear him. He took a sip of coffee, and tilted his head to one side. “In fact….”

“Yes, sir?” Jamie studied his father.

“I might just go along with you myself. It’s a worthwhile thing – a very worthwhile thing, Jamie. I could chivvy a few old pals at Whitehall for some names and support. Shame to waste all those fellows who could be helping to rebuild this country. No point in throwing them all on the salvage heap when they’re still able to work.”

“Work at what?” Philip said. “Some of those men are so badly crippled they’re better off dead. And most men aren’t going to want to live on charity – you’ll see.”

“It’s not charity we have in mind,” Jamie explained. “It’s labour rehabilitation.” He wasn’t about to dignify the comment regarding the men being better off dead with a reply.

“Dress it up in feathers and furbelows and call it what you will, it amounts to the same thing,” Philip pronounced with an air of finality. “It won’t work, and you’ll be a laughing-stock. I’d avoid the whole debacle, Father. You’ll be lending your name and reputation to flower and apple sellers.”

“Don’t throw cold water on the thing before it’s begun, Philip,” Charles said.

Jamie glared at Philip for a moment. “I don’t suppose you can think of someone besides yourself for just a moment? The state can’t or won’t do it all – private citizens need to step in and do their bit for the men who fought to preserve the nation’s safety.”

“You’re beginning to sound dangerously socialist, sprat. Rather like your pal J – ohh.” A knowing gleam settled in Philip’s eye. “That’s it, isn’t it? Jim Nicholls. No wonder you’re moving next door to him. Did he put you up to all this, Jim and his Catholic conscience? Christ.”

“Boys,” Margaret cautioned. “Really –“

“Socialist,” Jamie interrupted softly. “Listen to yourself. Good God – have you ever envisioned a life of immobility? A day without the use of your arms or your legs? Can you imagine a moment deprived of sight or hearing? Did none of that occur to you during the war? These men must live the rest of their days with those problems, and they need more than the uncertainty of day-to-day begging. Yes, Jim planted the seed of this idea, and I’m damned grateful to him for it.”

Philip got to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a crucifix and some rosary beads for you. And perhaps some dark glasses for myself so I’m not blinded by the halo round your head.” He tossed down his napkin and left the table.

Margaret stirred and sighed. “He’s tired.”

“If he’s tired, he ought to sleep,” Charles snapped. “He’s a grumpy little beggar, and I’m sick of it.” He exhaled heavily and turned to Jamie. “I meant what I said, lad. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a chat about your plans. I might be of some use to you.”

“I’d be very grateful, sir,” Jamie said. “Thank you.”

“If you really intend to take a flat, darling, there’s a great deal of furniture in the attics. Solid things, if not the most fashionable.” Margaret smiled at him.

“Thank you, Mother. I’ll have a look tomorrow. Please excuse me.” He rose to his feet and left the dining room, heading upstairs at once. He went down the corridor toward his rooms and saw Philip heading for the servants’ stairs. Philip saw him and stilled. 

“St. James the Greater.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

“I hear you’ve got Billy Thorpe caught up in your scheme as well. Poor bastard likely never knew what hit him – he never was very bright. Charlie’s worth ten of him.” Philip sauntered closer. 

“Charlie’s decided to be a patroness,” Jamie informed him.

“Oh, well done _you_. Christ, you’re so fucking sanctimonious. And that Nicholls oik, cut from the same cloth. The pair of you, you’re –“ Philip broke off with a sharp inhalation. His handsome face split into a broad grin. “Oh, _God_.”

Jamie scowled, but a cold unease tightened in his belly. “What?”

“Can’t believe it took me so long to work it out.” Philip’s smile widened. “The pair of you. No wonder you’re moving to Hampstead. Dad’s offer must be putting a spanner in your works.” He laughed and patted Jamie’s cheek. “Christ almighty. That’s _marvellous_ , sprat.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Jamie opened the door to his rooms.

“I was wrong about you being a monk. Who’s the catamite? You – or St. James the Lesser?”

Jamie rounded on Philip. “Watch what you’re saying, you bastard.”

Slowly, deliberately, Philip reached out and grasped the lapels of Jamie’s dinner jacket and moved close enough for Jamie to smell the gin on his breath. “You’re not denying it, are you? You can’t. Oh, God, it’s priceless. Honestly. I can’t conceive of anything more disgusting.”

“Let _go_.” Jamie shoved Philip backward, and Philip stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly on his backside. Jamie was upon him in a flash, and dragged him up, forcing him against the wall and holding him there, surprised at how easy it had been. He’d never once attempted to overpower his brother; he’d never had the advantage before. “I’m not some cowed child any longer, Philip. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am.”

“Fucking sod,” Philip hissed, batting ineffectually at Jamie’s hands.

“Watch your tongue. I’m not the only one with secrets.” Satisfied with the sudden look of apprehension – not fear, Philip would die before he showed fear to Jamie – in his brother’s eyes, Jamie let Philip go and wiped his hands on his trousers. “ _You’re_ disgusting. Get out.” He opened the door to his rooms and banged it shut. He listened and waited, ready for Philip to barge in, but he heard nothing, and at length heard Philip making his way back toward the servants’ staircase. 

Jamie sighed and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that Philip wouldn’t make trouble, no matter how much Jamie threatened him. He had to leave, and quickly. Philip was too indolent to attack a distant target. He hoped.

Impulsively, he went to his wardrobe and opened a drawer that held his handkerchiefs and cufflink and stud box. He slipped a hand beneath the crisp white kerchiefs and withdrew a tiny photograph in a little gilt frame, a miniature of Jim he’d had made up just after the war had ended. He gazed at Jim’s face, then pressed the picture to his lips.

_Soon._

 

*

“All work and no play make Jamie a very dull boy!” Billy shouted, handing Jamie a glass of champagne. “Bottoms up.”

“Much obliged.” Jamie accepted the glass and drank obediently, cocking a sceptical brow at Billy. “And it’s not all work. I turned up, didn’t I?”

“Grudgingly, old man, very grudgingly! Thank God you came, though – look what you’d have missed otherwise!” Billy flung out a hand, indicating the jazz band playing at raucous volume and the dancers who crowded the floor: men in formal evening dress and women like strange, glittering birds of paradise in short, colourful dresses ablaze with fringe and sequins and beads, and quantities of jewellery worn exotically – bracelets pushed up to clasp upper arms like the serpentine armbands of Egyptian queens, necklaces worn strapped across foreheads and fastened with diamond brooches. Even an occasional flash of fire showed in a jewel pinned daringly to a stocking-garter. And every man and woman danced with abandon, if not with much regard for metre or grace as they hurled themselves to and fro across the floor.

Jamie watched them, feeling a trifle elderly. “What do you call that dance?”

“Haven’t a deuced idea, but it looks rather easy, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Jamie drew on his cigarette and let his eyes roam. He saw Philip in a corner with two young women, his arms round their waists. He saw Charlotte and Pansy together on the dance floor, kicking their feet out in unison and giggling, surrounded by a number of handsome admirers. There was Edwin Hollis-Barton with Ronnie Colborne, who’d been released from a plush insane asylum a month before and who looked twenty years older than the rest of his friends. Nearby was Dickie Hedrick in earnest conversation with Alfred Sellers, a young veteran whose novel Jim was editing. It was all so familiar in an utterly changed world, and yet he felt strangely contented. 

He’d moved into the flat beside Jim’s, and they’d exchanged keys to the back-garden door, so it was almost as if they were living together. His days were busier than he’d ever anticipated; the blossoming charity, which Jim had christened the Society of St. Sebastian after the warrior saint, had been besieged by hundreds of requests for assistance, requiring Jamie and Billy and Charles Stewart to court more donors, dun more manufactories and already harried Labour Exchange officials, and to hire more help. They’d started off with Ally Peniston and Pansy Nicholls and now had a staff of six, all crippled veterans except for Pansy, and an office in Westminster. Jamie came home exhausted every evening – raising money and chivvying the rich, he told Jim, was tiring work – and he and Jim would eat the dinner that Jim’s housekeeper had prepared, discuss their day, and then read or do some work before retiring to Jim’s bedroom to make love to each other and fall asleep. It was absurdly domestic, and Jamie had never been happier. 

Now if only Jim would turn up. He’d gone to Kent for the Christmas holidays; Jamie had stayed at Stewart House for a few days as well. There was no avoiding family at Christmas. Jim had promised to persuade his father to take part in the charity’s training program and hire a few veterans for his bathtub factory. He’d said he would turn up for Charlotte’s New Year’s Eve party, though, and Pansy had said he’d planned to take the six o’clock train and take the tube to Soho once he’d dressed. It was half past ten now, though, and he still hadn’t arrived.

Jamie waded into the throng of dancers and caught Pansy by the arm. She squealed in delight and began pushing Jamie to and fro. “That’s it, Jamie. Nothing to it!”

“Where do you suppose Jim’s got to?” he shouted in her ear.

“Who knows? Maybe he missed the train! Maybe my parents wanted him to spend New Year’s with them and locked him in his room!” Pansy laughed. “Oh, don’t look so glum. He’ll be along! Come on, dance with me. It’s almost 1920! Brand new world, Jamie.” Pansy kissed his cheek.

Jamie grasped Pansy’s hand and waist and whirled her into a waltz, despite the much faster rhythm of the jazz ensemble. “I feel like waltzing!”

“You’re the silliest man!” Pansy lifted her hand from Jamie’s shoulder to pat his cheek. She still flirted with him despite his suspicion, if not complete certainty, that she no longer had a girlish crush on him. He liked her enormously; she was almost as sweet as Jim, and just as serious when it came to work. The veterans adored her cheeky grin and short skirts, and in the second-hand car Billy had donated to the cause, she trundled them back and forth to training, to job inquiries, to factories and printers, railways and shops. With the unflagging energy of the young, she worked for the suffragette cause as well, not content with the recent measure granting the vote to married women over thirty, and still had enough vim to dance madly until the small hours.

“A waltz?” Jamie turned to see Charlotte slipping her arm round Pansy’s waist and pulling her away. “Jamie, you’re mad. And you’ve stolen my dance partner, shame on you.” She grabbed Jamie’s hand and executed a flirtatious little step, then waved to someone at the far end of the room. “Look, it’s Jim! Go say hallo to him and for God’s sake wipe that dour look off your face.” Charlotte gave him a little push and wiggled her fingers in farewell.

Jamie moved quickly through the writhing crowd and hurried to Jim. “There you are at last! I was just asking Pansy where you’d got to. Did you miss the train?”

Jim shook his head. “No. Sorry, it took me longer than I thought to get ready.” He smiled wanly. “I hope there’s alcohol on the premises.”

“Naturally. When Charlotte creates a jazz _palais_ , she doesn’t do it by halves. In the co –“ Jamie stopped. “Are you all right?” It was difficult to see Jim’s expression in the dimly lit room, but his face looked a bit odd, as if he were upset and trying not to show it.

“Of course.” Jim gave him another smile, wider this time.

“Something’s wrong.” Jamie peered at Jim closely.

Jim averted his face. “Not now, eh? Let’s talk about it later.”

“Did your father decide not to open a programme for our lads?”

Jim sighed, and his entire body seemed to sag. “That’s part of it, yes.”

Disappointed, Jamie shook his head. “I thought surely he would. Well, look here, perhaps I can persuade him myself, or have my father speak to him. Don’t let’s think about it now – it’s New Year’s Eve. Almost 1920, Jim. Can you imagine?”

“No.” Jim reached out and briefly squeezed Jamie’s hand. “I can’t. Not without you, at any rate.”

Jamie returned the surreptitious caress. “Champagne?”

“Why not? Let’s celebrate.” They went to the bar and got their drinks, greeting people here and there. Their worlds had begun to mesh; writers, poets, and artists were finding their way into society, sometimes adopted by patrons, sometimes clawing their way up by sheer dint of work, determination, and audacity. Or perhaps it was a true blending of class, propelled along by the war. Whatever the case, it made for a fascinating mixture, and Jim introduced Jamie to a few Bohemian types he’d likely never have spoken to before the war. They were a bit daring in the matter of dress and mannerism, flamboyant and somewhat demonstrative for Jamie’s tastes, but he supposed he’d become used to it in time.

Despite the social press, or perhaps because of it, Jamie was feeling possessive. He manoeuvred Jim into a dim corner and held up the shallow glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They touched glasses and drank. Jim looked out at the dancers and frowned. “Is that your brother with my sister?”

Jamie turned and heaved a sigh. Philip was indeed dancing with Pansy, holding her closer than propriety allowed even in the decadent milieu of Charlotte’s party. Pansy looked uncomfortable. As they watched, Philip’s hand drifted from Pansy’s shoulder to caress her breast. “Oh, God. I’ll have a word.”

“No, I will.” Jim set his glass down on the floor and strode toward the dancing couples.

“Jim –“ Jamie shook his head and stared after Jim’s retreating figure, but his dismay turned to alarm when he saw the speed at which Jim was moving – as if he intended to give Philip a pounding. “Christ.” He set his own glass down and rushed toward the dance floor, shouldering his way through laughing couples. “Jim!”

Jim had reached Philip and Pansy and was tugging Pansy by the arm. She looked embarrassed, and Jim was saying something inaudible to Philip, and his face was contorted with anger, quite evident even under the dim lighting. Several nearby couples had stopped to watch with interest.

“ – no harm done,” Philip said as Jamie reached them. “And you ought to mind your own business, old boy.”

“My sister is my business… _old boy._ ” Jim’s voice trembled a bit, and his hands curled into fists, but he kept them at his sides. Despite his control, though, his entire body seemed to thrum with tension and rage, as if he were about to spring on Philip.

Jamie drew Pansy away and leant to speak into her ear. “Go get Jim a drink, darling.” He gave her a gentle push and put a placating hand onto Jim’s arm. “Jim –“ He saw Philip smirk and wheeled on him, grasping the lapel of his tailcoat, suddenly furious. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Apologise at once!”

“Piss off, Jamie. This isn’t your affair,” Philip snarled, pushing Jamie’s hand away.

“It’s all right, Jamie,” Jim replied. “I think an apology is in order, though.”

Philip laughed. “You can whistle for it, Nicholls.”

“Not to me. To Pansy.”

“Apologise? Christ, I was doing her a favour.” More couples had stopped dancing and gathered round to watch, though the jazz band tootled and thumped on, utterly oblivious to the quarrel on the floor.

“Philip!” Jamie roared. “God damn it –“

“I told you to piss off. Your sweetheart can defend himself.”

The words fell into a sudden pocket of silence as the song ended, and there was a gasping, rustling murmur in response. Jamie stood frozen in mute horror as Philip snickered, flicked idly at an imaginary wrinkle in his coat where Jamie had grabbed at it, and turned nonchalantly on his heel. There was a brief silence, then a rush of air as Jim tore past him, wrenched Philip around with one hand, and grasped his lapels, shaking him back and forth. “Apologise, you ruddy _bastard_.”

Philip looked comically stunned, then recovered himself, reared back, and plowed a fist into Jim’s midsection. Jim staggered, then aimed and punched Philip in the face. The crack of knuckles driving into the delicate cartilage of Philip’s nose and the resulting gush of blood, bright against Philip’s shirt even in the darkness, was startling enough to cause the crowd to groan and wince in response. 

_Oh, Christ._ Jamie tried to insinuate himself between the two men mercilessly pummeling each other, but they tumbled to the floor, out of his reach. Philip had managed to straddle Jim’s thighs and had gained a momentary advantage, slamming his fists into Jim’s ribs, but Jamie caught one of his upraised hands by the wrist and yanked him backward hard enough to drag him off Jim’s supine form.

“Bloody hell!” Billy Thorpe appeared at Jamie’s elbow and reached down to haul Philip up, wrapping an arm round his neck and pressing him close to his body so that Philip’s wild blows had little effect. “Christ almighty, Phil! Get hold of yourself!” He turned to someone in the crowd. “Rupert, for God’s sake, help me.”

A burly young man that Jamie vaguely recognised pinned Philip’s arm and helped Billy drag his shouting, flailing brother away from the dance floor. The crowd parted to let them pass; most of them had watched in utter fascination, as if the fight had been nothing more than another one of the evening’s brash entertainments. 

Jamie hastened to Jim’s side and knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”

Jim sat up gingerly, accepting Jamie’s hand, and nodded. He felt his jaw and winced. “I’m fine. Help me up, will you?” He groaned as Jamie hoisted him to his feet and steadied himself with a bit of effort. He looked down at his shirt, spattered with blood from Philip’s nose, and let out a rueful chuckle. “I suppose I’ve nobody but myself to blame for that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jamie muttered. He put an arm round Jim’s waist to steady him, conscious of the stares and excited murmurings surrounding them. The worst had been said; nothing for it now but to face it. He helped Jim off the floor, holding him tightly.

Billy loomed in front of them. “I’m putting him in his motor, Jamie. Think he’s had quite enough for one night.” He shook his head and patted Jim’s arm. “You all right, old chap?”

“Just a few bruises,” Jim said. “I think I’ve had enough for one night too, though. Jamie, do you mind if we leave?”

“Of course not.”

Jim nodded. “Billy, will you look after Pansy? I’m afraid she’ll be dreadfully upset by all this.”

“’Course I will, Jim. Not to worry.” He gave Jamie an apologetic glance. “Sorry about all this.”

“Wasn’t your fault, Billy,” Jamie sighed. “Look here, you haven’t got a motorcar I could borrow, have you? I was going to get a lift with Philip, but under the circumstances –“

“Say no more. It’s the white Sunbeam. Cahill should be snoozing behind the wheel – he’ll drive you home. Just tell him it’s perfectly fine with me.”

“Thanks. Ring me up on Sunday.” Jamie helped Jim to the cloakroom and fetched their things, then made his way outside, Jim in tow. Jamie craned his neck, searching through the sleek automobiles for the Thorpes’ Sunbeam. He passed his parents’ Rolls-Royce, glancing at Murchison settling Philip into the back seat.

Philip saw them and made an obscene gesture with his hand.

Jim reversed direction and moved toward the Rolls-Royce.

“Jim,” Jamie said, catching his arm. “Please don’t.”

“I’m not going to touch him. I want to speak with him.”

“Oh, God.” Feeling very confused and as if the situation was once more sliding out of his grasp, Jamie followed Jim to the motorcar, ready to pull him away if another fight broke out. He gave Murchison a warning glance, which the driver seemed to comprehend.

Jim nodded at Murchison and addressed Philip. “If you ever so much as touch my sister again, I’ll ruin you.”

“Ruin me?” Philip barked a disdainful laugh. “What could you possibly do to me, you dirty little sod?”

“I could tell people the truth about you.”

“Jim –“ Jamie began, praying that he wouldn’t mention the tenant girl and the hanging. It was ridiculous, on the face of it – Jamie knew where his loyalty lay – but it would dredge up far too much unpleasantness. Philip was vengeful by nature. “Jim, please –“

Philip sat up. The leather of the seat creaked. “The truth. Oh, pray do tell.”

“It _was_ you I saw in Piccadilly that day, wasn’t it?” Jim asked softly. “You were meant to be back in France, but instead you were in London.”

“What the hell are you –“ Philip froze.

“So I got interested. And I did a bit of digging, and managed to turn up the most fascinating tidbit of information.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Philip wasn’t in France for the remainder of the war, because he was in London. Where, I can’t imagine, but it certainly wasn’t at your parents’ house, was it? They’d be heartbroken if they knew the truth.”

Philip stared. His face turned red.

“The truth?” Jamie scowled, then turned to Philip. “My God. Did you desert?”

“No,” Jim said. “He was dishonourably discharged. For drunkenness. And rape.” 

Jamie pressed his hands together, unable to speak. Shock coursed through his body, tempered with a measure of cynicism. _I should have known._ Jamie had discharged two men in his own battalion for rape; neither of them were like Philip, in truth, but both, he’d learned from other men in the company, had committed the act more than once before being caught. Men like that, like Philip, never changed. He watched Philip’s face blanch and his mouth open and close like a beached fish, and held his brother’s gaze for a moment. “How dare you,” he said softly. “How dare you insult him when you’re such a low excuse for a man.”

Philip struggled for composure. “You won’t tell,” he said. “You haven’t got the stomach for it.”

“If you threaten him again,” Jamie said, “or Pansy, rest assured I won’t hesitate to do so. You’d be a pariah, Philip. No decent family would ever receive you again. Your friends who fought honourably in the war would cut you dead in the street. Women would go out of their way to avoid you. You would be utterly _persona non grata_ , and believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure. Nothing.”

“You’d kill Mother and Dad if you did.”

“I wonder if they would be surprised. It would be difficult for them, but you’ve already managed to make quite a reputation for yourself, and so – fortunately for you – it wouldn’t be a long slide to the bottom. Do they know about the girl? Maisie, wasn’t that her name?”

Philip looked away. “Murchison, home. Now.”

Jamie stepped away from the motor. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Murchison.”

Murchison shook his head. “I’d better get him home, sir. Shall I come back for you and Mr. Nicholls?”

“Not necessary, but thank you.” Jamie turned to Jim, who looked utterly miserable, and pressed his hand in reassurance, not caring now who saw him.

“Very well. Good night, sir. Mr. Nicholls.”

“Good night,” Jim echoed quietly, and turned away. 

Jamie watched Murchison drive down the street. Philip was slumped in the back seat. He wondered if his threat would be enough to hold Philip at bay. Possibly – for a while, at least. He guessed he couldn’t hold his malice off forever.

He turned and looped his arm through Jim’s. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

 

*

 

Jamie touched the wet flannel to Jim’s swollen mouth. “I’ve never seen you so angry.”

Jim sighed. “I’ve never been so angry,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth. He moved it away and stared earnestly at Jamie. “Pansy’s silly, but there’s no way for a girl to escape that sort of situation without raising a fuss, and all I saw – besides a cloud of red – was Philip manoeuvring her off the dance floor and into the cloakroom or some secluded corner. I couldn’t stand the thought of it.” He sighed. “I’m sorry if I caused you embarrassment, Jamie. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so furious.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“About Philip?” Jim sighed again and took Jamie’s hand. “You’d told me about that girl in Scotland and I suppose I…I don’t really know. I didn’t want to add to your burden, but I thought perhaps if he were properly ignored, he’d go away. Stupid of me. And worse still to keep the information from you.” Jim sat up and twisted the cloth in his hands. “And I suppose it was dreadfully dishonest of me to go looking for the records when I became suspicious. I’m so sorry.”

“I suppose it’s better knowing,” Jamie said, faltering. “I don’t blame you for it. I reckon under the same circumstances I’d have gone digging as well.” He plucked the cloth from Jim’s hand and laid it against his cheek. “That bruised quite quickly, didn’t it?”

Jim let out a cynical little laugh. “That wasn’t Philip.”

Jamie frowned. “What do you mean? You –“

“It was…it happened this afternoon, at home.” Jim stared up at the ceiling. “I told my parents, Jamie. They were nagging at me and nagging at me, and they’d invited a young lady for tea, the daughter of a friend, and when I didn’t fall to my knees and propose, they pushed until I –“ He laughed again, a short, sharp, bitter chuckle. “I told them I hadn’t any interest in girls.”

“Good God.”

“We had a terrible row. Terrible. My first of the day.” Jim smiled, but tears sprang to his eyes. He blinked fiercely. “My mother cried – I’ve never seen her so heartbroken. And my father…well, you see.” Jim indicated his bruised cheek. 

Jamie’s heart ached for Jim. “Did you tell them about us?” 

Jim nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, perhaps I could visit them…speak to them.”

“Oh, God, no. They’d cut you, Jamie. I couldn’t bear that.” Jim swallowed. “Father ordered me out of the house. Mother tried to reason with him and eventually she grew angry – God bless her, it was like watching a kitten spit at a mastiff – but he wouldn’t hear of it, and he threw me out, bag and baggage. I’m not to return unless I decide to come to my senses.”

Helplessly, Jamie caught Jim’s hand in his. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. Small wonder you were so angry tonight.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jim closed his eyes for a moment. “And I suppose everyone at the party heard Philip’s taunt, too.”

“Maybe it’s better that people know.” It was an audacious thought; Jamie had never considered it, let alone voiced it. “Perhaps it’s preferable to hiding and skulking.”

“Ask Oscar Wilde. He mightn’t agree.” Jim reached out and caressed Jamie’s arm. As he did, the mantel clock in the parlour struck twelve. “Oh, good heavens. It’s 1920. What a way to begin the New Year.” He offered Jamie a ragged smile. “Happy New Year, Jamie.”

Jamie gazed at him for a moment, and listened to the faint chiming of the clock. Outside came a distant racket of shouts and the clatter of spoons on pots and pans. “Happy New Year, Jim.” He smiled, then chuckled. Jim let out a snort. Their gazes slid away from each other, met again, and they collapsed in ridiculous laughter, clinging desperately to one another, shaking with near-hysterical mirth. “Oh, for the love of God.”

“Why are we laughing?”

“I don’t know, it’s not remotely funny,” Jamie said, and the laughter bubbled up inside him again. Jim howled, clutching his bruised ribs. His sides aching, tears pouring from his eyes, Jamie dropped to the mattress beside Jim and curled close, his laughter finally tapering off to hitching chuckles and sniffs. 

“My word.” Jim wiped his streaming eyes. “What a pair of nincompoops we are.”

“Who else would have us?” Jamie moved closer to Jim and draped an arm over his belly. 

“I don’t know. I suppose we’re lucky at that.”

“I know I am, at any rate.” Jamie kissed Jim’s ear. “Listen here, Jim. We might be social outcasts tomorrow – but I’m not so certain. There are chaps like us in my circle, as I told you, and surely some of those writers and artists you favour –“

“Yes, but they’re writers and artists. They’re meant to be outrageous.”

“Still. Perhaps times are changing a bit.” He stroked Jim’s curls. “What with votes for women and short skirts and jazz and this bold new era, perhaps people won’t bother so much about us. In any event, it doesn’t matter. If –“ He paused, aware that Jim was watching him intently. Heat began to creep up his neck. “If I’ve got you, then I can withstand any cruelty.”

Jim said nothing for a moment, but he smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “What a glorious thing to say,” he murmured at last.

“I mean every word.”

“I know you do. Kiss me.”

Jamie bent down and touched his lips to Jim’s. 

It was a happy new year after all.

 

*

 

Epilogue  
1967

The day was brilliantly sunny, warm and almost syrupy. Bees hummed drowsily round the phlox and Queen Anne’s Lace that grew wild at the edge of the churchyard, and the stone bench upon which Jamie sat radiated a lovely heat into his body. It seemed he was always cold lately – the past few days even more so – but today he felt warm and almost replete. He curled his hand round his walking stick and turned his face up to the sun, letting the warm breeze carry the lush, rippling scents of newly mown grass and newly turned earth to his nose.

Mostly everyone had gone, leaving him for a few moments of contemplation: Pansy, her children Jilly and Freddie and Nicholas, their spouses, and Pansy’s eight grandchildren; Charlie and her family; the entire staff, it seemed, of Herald Press; Ally and the few remaining men from the 17th; some of the men from St. Sebastian’s. He hadn’t seen so much khaki in an age. He wasn’t sorry for this solitude, although everything he’d wanted to say had been said, and long ago at that. If one couldn’t say what was in one’s heart after fifty years, things had come to a very sad pass indeed.

He brushed his hand over the folded flag on his lap, and raised his eyes to the flowers surrounding the grave. Simple, Jim had said. Nothing fussy or ostentatious. But people had sent masses of flowers just the same. Nothing for it, in the end. Jamie pictured Jim’s resigned grace, a shrug, a sweet smile – always sweet, that smile.

Jamie’s vision blurred.

“Uncle Jamie?”

It was Nicholas. Tall and blond like Pansy, like Jim. The same blue eyes.

“Are you ready? The others are at the hall, but you needn’t rush if you want to stay a bit. I can come back for you.”

“No, no.” Jamie planted a frail hand on his stick and heaved himself up, nodding as Nicholas supported his other arm. “Take that flag, Nicholas. Don’t let it drop.”

“No, sir. I’ll take it to the car and bring it round for you. Will you be all right?” 

The path to the gate was daunting, but Jamie bristled nonetheless. “Of course I’ll be all right. Off you go.”

Nicholas nodded and turned to look at the grave. “He’d have been glad to see so many people here, I think.”

“He always was social,” Jamie said.

“I’ll miss him.”

Jamie nodded. The walls of his heart were paper-thin after so many years, and the blood flowed sluggishly through his veins, but it wasn’t his faltering arterial system that produced the ache in his chest. Such an ache, even after more than fifty years. Had they said all there was to say? Suddenly, he thought not. He wanted to tell Jim about the people who’d come, the droning voice of the priest, the silly extravagance of the flowers. He wanted to tell him that he’d fussed over choosing a shirt and tie, that Jilly had had to help him with his elderly cufflinks now that Jim couldn’t. He wanted to show him the phlox, the blue sky that shone as brightly as the day they’d charged the German encampment, the day they’d thought they would be riding to glory. And they had, the two of them, even if the path had been roundabout.

At the end, there had been no words, only Jim’s blue eyes and sweet smile. And now, only a profound ache, a hole in his ancient and fragile heart.

Nicholas squeezed his arm gently. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Jamie turned back to the grave. Carefully, he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a brittle, folded sheet of paper, yellowed, its old-fashioned copperplate penmanship faded with age. With the greatest caution, he unfolded it and read the words on the page, though he knew them by heart. As he read, the ache began to diminish, and he heard a familiar, beloved voice and felt a warmth surrounding him.

_My dearest Jamie…._

 

End.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v57/splix/cumberbatch/?action=view&current=9f3295c3.png)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image at the top was created by me; the gorgeous image below [with lyric by Mumford & Sons] was created by the wonderful [sithdragn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sithdragn/pseuds/sithdragn).
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [These Days of Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/493108) by [sithdragn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithdragn/pseuds/sithdragn)
  * [Roses of Picardy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/495031) by [hechicera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hechicera/pseuds/hechicera)
  * [Keep Going](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364095) by [Technicolor_Dreamcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Technicolor_Dreamcoat/pseuds/Technicolor_Dreamcoat)
  * [J.S. September 1914](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046267) by [Hippediva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva)




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